


Once Upon a Wendigo

by somethingintheperiphery



Series: Wendigo!verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, Multi, Professor!Dean, kid!Sam, teacher!Cas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-21 15:43:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingintheperiphery/pseuds/somethingintheperiphery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. Milton’s favorite student has an enthusiasm for drawing terrifying monsters -- in vivid finger-paint detail. Concerned for Sam Winchester's 4-year-old psyche, Mr. Milton schedules a parent-teacher conference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Once Upon a Wendigo

It’s the third week of the school year and Castiel has finally settled into a comfortable routine with his students. Mondays have been designated as “Art and Culture” day and the children enjoy funneling their post-weekend energy into various arts and crafts. This Monday is no different. As soon as Castiel lays out the various art supplies, eager hands swoop in to pick and choose their favorite colors of construction paper, pipe cleaners, and paint. Sam Winchester grabs several cups of red paint and runs back to his seat.

“Indoor speed,” Mr. Milton warns.

Soon the sounds of snipping scissors and wheezing glue bottles can be heard throughout the classroom. Castiel likes to begin Mondays by instructing his students to create a visual summary of their weekends using any medium of their choice. Kevin Tran, his TA, sets up the easels for the students that wish to paint while Castiel brings out a small stack of plastic aprons from the supply closet.

Once the students are settled and working, he makes his rounds slowly and observes everyone’s progress. Most students, artistically inclined or otherwise, have shown improvement in both skill and enthusiasm. He spots Jessica Lee Moore making a rabbit out of pipe cleaners and mentally notes to make sure none of the wires' sharp edges are available to little hands. Ed Zeddmore and Harry Spangler huddle close together as they build little director’s chairs out of popsicle sticks. Castiel is helping Ruby Talbot locate a pair of lefty scissors when Sam accidentally drops a cup of red paint all over his shirt.

“Sam, where is your apron?” he asks as he makes his way over to assess the extent of damage to Sam’s clothes.

Sam looks up innocently. “I forgot it.”

“Now, Sam, remember the rules: when we paint--” Castiel’s gaze strays toward the easel and he stops mid-speech. “Sam,” he asks gently, “what are you painting?”

The painting in question is the latest addition of what Castiel is beginning to refer to as “worrying weekend summaries.” The painting is done entirely in black and red paint depicting a monstrous, vaguely humanoid creature looming in what appears to be a cave. It is surrounded by an inaccurate representation of fire, its clawed hands pointed up like it’s writhing in pain.

Sam follows Castiel’s gaze and calmly replies, “A wendigo.”

Castiel has no idea what in the world a wendigo _is_ , so instead he nods in agreement and steers Sam into the washrooms to help him change into his spare clothes. The moment he gets a chance, he schedules an appointment with Sam’s guardian to have a talk.

It's not the first time Sam has painted...interesting creatures. In the first week of school, Castiel witnessed Sam’s interpretation of a werewolf, and just last week Sam’s vampires had made him pause in worry. The vampires were as terrifying as they were inaccurate, their fangly mouths twisted in horror as a man chased after them with what Sam identified as a “really big knife!” Now with the newest addition of this wendi-whatever, Castiel has detected a pattern -- a pattern that requires administrative action.

The worst of the situation isn’t even the fantastical beasts coming from Sam’s imagination. It’s that the paintings are so graphic, so violent in nature, that Castiel cannot display his artwork in good conscience. As long as Sam’s theme continues, his work will never appear on the “Art of the Week!” wall, and Castiel’s heart twists at the look of pure dejection on Sam’s face when Fridays roll around.

 _Well, I'll just have to change that_ , Castiel decides.  
  


\-----

  
Dean doesn’t hear his phone go off during his mid-morning class, but he feels it vibrate in his pocket. He feels it vibrate again a few minutes later and makes a mental note to check his voicemail as soon as he’s done teaching. Dean hopes it’s the electrician. The house has had some issues with the wiring and last week when he plugged in the vacuum, sparks flew. Dean needs to get that checked out before he accidentally electrocutes himself, or worse, before the house goes up in flames. He also needs to make this week’s grocery run and Sam needs new clothes for the fall. Sam’s growing like a weed and his last winter’s coat doesn’t fully cover his torso anymore, the sleeves barely reaching his wrists.

Which reminds him, the Impala’s been making a weird clunking sound and Dean needs to check his baby over _pronto_.

Dean sits on the edge of his desk and crosses his legs at the ankles. “According to last night’s reading, who can tell me the classic signs of the presence of a ghost?” The semester has just started and Dean doesn’t actually expect his students to be in “school mode” just yet, but he still likes to weed out the slackers. Besides, he’s not exactly known as an easy professor, quite the opposite in fact. “Professor Winchester is a hardass and if you slack in his class, he will ride your ass until kingdom come -- not that you’d mind, Winchester is _fine_!” Oh yeah, Dean knows all about his profile on RateMyProfessor -- and Professor Winchester is HOT. By the looks on his students’ faces, he’s pretty sure they’re all well aware.

There’s a furious rustle of flipping pages as the usual suspects shoot their arms into the air. “Someone new. Someone who hasn’t done the reading, preferably.” His eyes survey the room. “You, the one in the hoodie avoiding eye contact.” The frightened student in question looks like a deer caught in the headlights. Dean smiles charmingly, but it belies the shark within. “Time to dazzle me with your brilliance.”

“Uh...” the student begins, “y’know. Flickering lights?”  
  


\-----

  
As his students file out, Dean collects his papers and bag and heads back to his office, a converted supply closet on the second floor of the English Department. The room is just large enough to squeeze in two bookshelves, a desk, and two chairs on opposite sides. It’s a little cramped, but it’s a better scenario than when he shared an office with Professor Henriksen. They had come to the conclusion that while they could coexist, they could definitely not cohabitate.

Dean dumps his shoulder bag and miscellaneous papers onto his messy desk before plopping into his chair, the seat swiveling under him. He pulls his phone from his jeans and scrolls through the notifications. He has one missed call and one voicemail. The missed call is from Sam’s elementary school, which is odd considering the voicemail in his inbox is definitely from a sex line because _hello_ , Dean would not mind more of where that gruff voice came from, please and thank you.

The voice self-identifies as Mr. Milton, the name of which Dean recognizes from the “Congratulations! Your child has earned him/herself a spot in our prestigious kindergarten!” letter he had received in the mail a few months ago.

Aside from the totally hot sex voice, the message is simple and requests that he call back immediately to schedule a parent-teacher conference. That in itself is worrying because Sam’s not the trouble-making type. Well, not yet anyway. Dean may be a professor, but he was a student once and can still remember all too well the brand of trouble Winchesters tend to attract. What if Sam beat up some kid? Or worse, what if Sam’s the one who got beat up? He didn’t raise a bully, but he didn’t raise a pushover either, and Dean really doesn’t want to explain why Sam knows how to throw a solid punch.

Then Dean’s mind starts to race. What if it’s not about a fight at all, but something more serious? What if Sam’s sick? What if he accidentally swallowed something? What if he’s developed an allergy to something, like his peanut butter sandwich? Maybe Dean should switch to turkey? But how would he get Sam to eat it? The school would tell him if Sam needed hospitalization. _Right_?

Dean is supposed to have office hours until an hour before Sam’s out of school, but he cancels them with a handwritten note on the outside of his door. He’s capping the black marker with his teeth as he calls the elementary school to confirm his attendance later that afternoon. Whatever this is about, it’s getting settled today.  
  


\-----

  
Castiel is facilitating “Clean Up Time” at the end of class when he receives confirmation from the main office that Sam’s guardian, Mr. Winchester, will be meeting with him within the hour. Castiel thanks the secretary, a plump jovial woman named Missouri, and hangs the classroom phone gently in its cradle. He’s pleased Sam’s parent responded promptly. It showcases a healthy family environment and a serious investment in the child’s education. A voice nags at the back of Castiel’s mind. If Sam comes from a good, loving home, where is his gruesome imagination stemming from? Something smells fishy.

Castiel collects various nearly-empty bottles of tempera paint and places them on a tray. He calls Sam over and hands him the tray. “Will you help me put these away in the supply room?” Sam nods and they head toward the back of the classroom through a door where they keep everything from supplies to the spare clothes the children sometimes require.

It is one of the most well-stocked closets Castiel has ever had the pleasure of using. The tuition alone for the small private school keeps the classrooms stocked, the campus clean, and every piece of technology updated to the latest software. Add in generous contributions from private donors and Castiel has the best salary he’s had in years.

“How did you enjoy art time today, Sam?” Sam holds the tray of paints while Castiel plucks the containers and sorts them away.

“I drew a wendigo on fire,” Sam boasts, puffing his chest proudly. The tray tips forward and one paint container falls to the floor with a thump.

“Do you like wendigos?” Cas asks conversationally as he stoops down to pick up the bottle of tempera paint.

“They’re really cool! When they die, they make this sound!” Sam pulls in a large breath of air and _screeches_.

Kevin runs into the storage room in a panic. “What’s happening??”

Castiel feels like he just lost a year off his life. He unclenches the fist over his heart and smoothes out his cardigan. “Nothing, everything’s fine. Sam...he’s feeling very energetic today.”

Sam smiles, rocking back on his heels. Kevin leaves with a wary glance over his shoulder as Castiel takes the tray from Sam’s little hands and kneels down. “Sam, I called your father and he’s going to come talk to me about your paintings. How do you feel about that?”

Sam’s eyes widen. “Am I in trouble?”

Cas pets the top of his head in a reassuring gesture. “No. In fact, you can play with the puzzles while we wait for him to arrive.”

“Right now?”

“As soon as your classmates leave for the day.” Castiel pushes off his knee and stands. “Now go finish cleaning up with your friends.”  
  


\-----

  
They don’t have to wait long before Castiel hears footsteps approaching. He leaves Sam hunched over his puzzle, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration, and meets Mr. Winchester a few feet outside the classroom door.

A man about his height, maybe an inch or two taller, slowly approaches him. He’s bowlegged, Castiel notices, and he’s wearing pants that are snug around the bum. The material looks rough, raw denim with a dark wash. They look expensive. He’s walking casually, the rest of his tanned body sporting a well-fitted plain grey t-shirt, biceps clearly visible.

“Hi,” he smiles, “you must be Sam’s teacher, Mr. Milton.” The man extends his hand in greeting, and Castiel takes the offered hand in a firm handshake.

“Mr. Winchester,” he acknowledges with a nod. “Thank you for coming.”

“Oh, you can just call m--”

Thunderous little feet interrupt as Sam launches himself at the newcomer. “DEANNNN!”

“Hey there, Sam-squatch!”

Castiel watches as “Deannnn” scoops Sam up in an effortless one-armed embrace, holding him firm around the waist. The affection is easy and familial, but Castiel doesn’t know of any children who address their parents by their first names. Perhaps this is one of those new age parenting styles, the ones about equality between parent and child. Dean certainly looks young enough.

Unless this isn’t Sam’s father after all. An older brother, perhaps?

“I heard you talking to Mister Milton! Did you come to see my drawings? Mister Milton says they’re really good! Today during art time--”

Dean breaks Sam’s long-winded monologue and places him on the ground. “Alright, sounds great, Sammy. Why don’t you go work on your homework or play with some of the toys inside while I talk to your teacher?"

“I was doing a puzzle!” Sam protests.

“That’s awesome, dude. Think you can finish it before we go?” Castiel hears the challenge in the question, and by the way his face locks in determination, Sam does, too. Dean fistbumps Sam and turns to Castiel.

Dean’s bright green eyes shift beneath long eyelashes as they follow Sam as he disappears into the classroom. His gaze reveals a deep fondness for the toddler, and his shapely lips quirk in a proud grin. When his attention shifts back to Castiel, the soft expression hardens a bit, his back straightens and his broad shoulders lend to an already imposing form. It makes for quite an attractive sight.

“So you asked to speak about Sam, Mr. Milton?"

Castiel nods. “He’s not in any trouble, if that’s what you’re worried about. Your _son_ ,” Castiel fishes, “ is a pleasure to have in class. All the other students get along with him very well.”

The fight bleeds from Dean’s tense frame. “Damn straight he’s a pleasure,” he snorts, clearly smug. “So what’s this about?”

Daddy Winchester, then. _Figures_ , Castiel rues dramatically. A man that handsome is not only married, but microchipped -- and only because keeping him under lock and key might arouse the suspicion of the neighbors.

“Well,” Castiel begins, “I’m a little concerned about Sam’s creative outlet.” He licks his lips, chapped from the cold and dry weather. “As I’m sure you’re well aware he has quite the imagination, the nature of which is disturbingly graphic for a boy his age. He’s a talented artist, but I’m wondering as to where he might be getting his ideas.”

Dean’s blank stare conveys efficiently that actually, _no_ , Dean has no idea what he’s on about.

“He paints extremely vivid pictures of monsters and creatures,” Castiel says deliberately, as if Dean’s acting purposefully obtuse. At Dean’s persistent blank look, Castiel sighs. “Perhaps it’s best if you see them for yourself.”  
  


\-----

  
Mr. Milton leads Dean inside, a cheerfully painted classroom with large glass windows decorated with patches of brightly colored tissue paper. The rendered effect is that of a DIY stained glass project. Sam is sitting on the floor in a far off corner, next to a pile of beanbag chairs thrown haphazardly in a heap like a patch of overgrown pumpkins. There are bookshelves everywhere laden with everything from picture books to legos to toy trains and make-believe phones.

Mr. Milton’s desk is off to one side, angled so that it faces a majority of the classroom. The desk is practically bare, only the essentials crowding in a corner along with a framed picture of a very grumpy cat. A smaller desk is situated close by with a handmade nameplate that reads, “Kevin.” Once at his desk, Mr. Milton rifles through his files and lesson plans to pull out Sam’s paintings. They’re all saved in a yellow manila folder, presumably kept filed away from young and impressionable eyes. Dean looks on as the paintings are spread out over the desk, the paintings little more than a large mass of black and red paint.

“Sam said this one was a werewolf,” Mr. Milton says, pointing to the aforementioned painting and disrupting Dean’s thoughts. He points to another. “This one is a vampire. And this one,” he points to one that is still slightly damp, “this one happened today. It’s a wendid-- a wedido-- an I-don’t-know-what.”

Dean valiantly suppresses his growing amusement. “A wendigo?”

Mr. Milton turns his gaze to Dean in suspicion. “Yes. That.” He drops his eyes back to the paintings. “You have to understand, Mr. Winchester, these images are very violent. I’m worried about Sam’s mental well-being.”

Dean can’t help himself. Sam? Mentally unbalanced? He ducks his head and tries to stifle a laugh.

“I suppose you find this amusing?” Mr. Milton’s tone is lethal. “It’s always such fun when your child exhibits early signs of emotional trauma.”

“Look, Mr. Milton,” Dean holds his hands up in mock surrender, “this all has a very logical explanation.”

“I’m listening.” Mr. Milton’s glower reeks of ‘I am an educator and therefore you should show me some respect.’ Were Dean a lesser man, he might be cowed into submission, but Dean’s an educator, too. A menacing glower is Teaching 101. Mr. Milton’s staredown is solid, his pretty blue eyes adopting a sharp edge, not dulled through the lenses of his rimmed glasses. It’s really kind of hot.

“I’m an English professor down at the university.” At Mr. Milton’s unimpressed stare, Dean falters. “I’m teaching Supernatural Mythology in American Literature this semester,” he offers. “Urban legends make their way in, too.”

Realization dawns on Mr. Milton’s face, but is quickly replaced with righteous indignation. “You think this,” Mr. Milton whispers incredulously, gesturing wildly toward the paintings, “is suitable material for a four year old?”

“Oh, come on,” Dean complains, “it’s like ghost stories!” He pauses, then adds devilishly, “Or, you know, like stories from the Bible. No one ever complains about those.” At Mr. Milton’s ungiving stare, Dean huffs. “Okay.” He turns to Sam who is still diligently working on his puzzle. “Hey, Sammy, are wendigos scary?”

Sam looks up from his puzzle and shakes his head. “Nope.” Then, in the same tone adults adopt when telling their children yes, there is such a thing as goldfish heaven, Sam adds, “you can kill them with fire."

Dean snorts. “Yeah, if they were real.”  
  


\-----

  
Once Mr. Milton has been sufficiently assured that, no, Sam is not under the impression that these monsters are real, does he finally allow the conversation to stray toward friendlier topics.

“So...” he begins lamely. “You’re a professor?”

“It’s not as glamorous as it sounds,” Dean laughs, “but I’m sure you know that.”

“Teaching is its own reward,” and Mr. Milton winces at how _Chicken Soup for the Soul_ it comes across. Dean’s reaction is to throw his head back and laugh.

“Whatever, Buddha. You teach four year-olds. Any wisdom you dish out doesn’t get any deeper than ‘look both ways before you brush your teeth.’” At Mr. Milton’s responding chuckle, Dean turns sheepish. “That didn’t come out right.”

Mr. Milton flashes a real smile at that and Dean feels himself unconsciously lean forward in his seat. ‘Mr. Milton’ looks to be around his age, maybe a year or two older, and now that he’s relaxed and chatting, Dean can see why all the mothers titter about this particular man at the school gate. He’s attractive-- _and how so_ \--and either oblivious to his good looks or completely unconcerned with the fact.

Despite the fact he works with messy children, Mr. Milton is clad in a nice pair of charcoal slacks and a button down shirt he’s tucked into the waistband. He is sporting a simple brown leather belt, accentuating his narrow hips. His body is lithe, but toned. Behind him, his cardigan is slung across the back of his desk chair along with a tan colored trench coat. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing lightly-muscled arms, but Dean takes most pleasure in the shape of his hands. They’re the hands of honest labor, strong and firm, but the paint under his fingernails tell of a gentler occupation. They’re gorgeous.

They’re also conspicuously ring-free. Perfect.

“So, Milton. Is that...British?” Dean fishes, leaning his elbow on the desk, his grin dangerously charming. The intent is not lost on Mr. Milton whose eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“It’s just very old,” he admits. “And Castiel is fine.”

“Castiel?”

“It’s from the Bible,” Castiel informs him, answer rote.

“Dare I ask?” Dean teases.

“That would be your prerogative,” Castiel supposes, “but it is perhaps a conversation better suited over dinner and drinks.” It’s delivered nonchalantly, but Dean detects a definite lilt in his cadence, turning the statement into a quiet, hopeful question. Hell yes.

“Maybe this Fri--”

“Deeeeaaannn, I’m hungry,” Sam whines suddenly. Dean and Castiel snap apart, their hands caught in the proverbial cookie jar. Sam abandons the puzzle and climbs onto Dean’s lap, looking up imploringly as Dean’s arms instinctively hold him in pace. “I want lasagna.”

Castiel pushes off the desk, his wooden chair struggling against the carpet. The moment is lost and he begins to collect Sam’s paintings in a flurry of nervous energy.

“Well, I believe the matter has been settled. Thank you for seeing me today. Sam’s a wonderful student, a true all-around joy to have in class.” He places the paintings back in the manila folder and holds it out to Dean. “I believe you’ll want these?”

Dean tucks the folder under his arm and ruffles Sam’s floppy hair. Sam’s expression is mutinous as he preens his hair back into place. Sam’s mood is quickly descending into the depths of Dean’s personal hell. _Here comes prissy pants. Time to go_ , he thinks.

“Alright Picasso, we’re going home. Say goodbye to Cas--Mr. Milton.”

“I don’t wanna go home, I want lasagna!” Sam kicks a leg against Dean.

“Sam,” Dean says sternly, to little effect. He turns his attention back to Castiel and shoots him a commiserating smile. “Sorry. Little brothers, am I right?”

“I’ve seen my fair share of temper-- wait, what?”

Castiel is shocked and Dean quirks his eyebrows in response. “Did I say something weird?” His expression is meant to appear genuinely bewildered, but its execution is compromised by Sam, who is making pitiful noises and pulling at Dean’s face.

“You're not Sam’s father?" Castiel blurts, sans filter from brain to mouth. His brain throws up a red flag, but it’s too late.

Dean doesn’t bat an eyelash. He gets this all the time from people who see him and Sam together. Of course Castiel would be under the same impression. It’s an honest mistake: Sam’s young, Dean’s of parenting age, and they’re clearly related. Dean doesn’t mind rectifying the misunderstanding. He opens his mouth to answer, but doesn’t get a single word in edgewise as Sam chooses that exact moment to stick as much of his hand as he possibly can into Dean’s mouth. And because Sam is a punk, he volunteers his version of the truth.

“Nope, Dean’s my brother and he’s bi--,” Sam struggles with the pronunciation, “bi-sensual.”

Dean literally pulls Sam’s hand out of his face. “Sammy!”

“That’s what Uncle Bobby told Aunt Jody!” Sam chirps.

“That is _not_ what Uncle Bobby told Aunt Jody,” Dean grits through his embarrassment.

Castiel huffs a laugh, heartened by Dean and Sam’s bickering. “Well that’s good to know.”

Dean fumbles. “What’s good?”

“Dean,” Castiel smiles, “may I ask you out to dinner?”  
  


\-----

  
As Dean and Sam make their way to the car, Sam makes one final stand for dinner.

“Are we getting lasagna now?” he demands, hanging like a limp noodle in Dean’s arms.

Dean shifts Sam onto one arm as he fishes for his car keys. “You’re getting yesterday’s veggie loaf.”

Sam gives up, deflating into his car seat. “Okay.”

Dean buckles him in with a practiced ease. “Maybe next week, kiddo.”

The week has started off on a good note. The students in his class are actively interested in the course material, Sam’s not in trouble, and he’s even got a hot date lined up on Friday.

Dean looks back to the elementary school and lets out a deep breath. It’s been a long time since he’s gone on a date; it’s been even longer since he’s dated. Sam is his first priority and raising him solo has been a full-time job. Everything else has been on the back burner ever since--

\--anyway, it’s not like he’s thinking of dating Castiel. He’s Sam’s _teacher_ for crying out loud.

It’s just one date. One really, really hot date.


	2. Chasing Tail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's mid-September and Friday's finally here. Professor Dean Winchester and Mister Castiel Milton bond over a mutual love of juicy burgers and making out in the Impala. A second date might be in order.

Dean’s alarm goes off at 6 o’clock sharp.

He stumbles out of bed and into the bathroom, hands on autopilot as they turn the shower knob. The shower gurgles noisily and spurts to life, an uneven spray hitting the tile and splashing beyond the shower door. He waits for the water to warm while he shaves in front of the mirror, leaving the slightest bit of stubble. He runs a palm across his cheeks and inspects his chin, looking for any missed spots. Not bad, he decides with one approving nod in the mirror.

When the steam begins to rise and cloud the bathroom, Dean hops in the shower and works quickly. The hot water goes a long way in waking him up and clearing his mind. It’s Friday which means he doesn’t have any classes to teach today, but Sam still has to go to school. Speaking of, Dean has a hot date with a particular school teacher. He squirts a dollop of shampoo into his hand and works it into his hair. This date is either the best idea or possibly the worst. Castiel is Sam’s teacher. Should things go awry, Dean doesn’t want Sam to be affected in any way.

But also, Dean hasn’t been laid since he-can’t-remember-when and a man has _needs_. Dean is under no illusion which head is calling the shots.

Besides, he justifies while scrubbing his body with soap, should things end poorly...aren’t they both mature adults? Castiel is a teacher and he takes himself very seriously. He’ll be able to keep his emotions outside of the classroom. Sam will be fine.

Dean rinses and shuts off the water. He grabs his towel and wraps it around his hips, making his way back to his room. The warmth from the shower unfortunately stays in the bathroom and Dean hurries to dress before his nipples have a chance to freeze. He pulls on an older pair of worn-in jeans and a plain t-shirt, then makes his way to Sam’s room. He knocks on the door and waits for a response. When he doesn’t get one, he turns the door handle and pads quietly to Sam’s bed.

“Sam, wake up. Time for school.”

The lump burrowed under the covers contracts into a smaller form. “‘s too cold,” it mumbles.

“If you don’t get up,” Dean warns, “I’m going to tickle you.”

Sam’s head pops out of his blanketed cocoon. “No, don’t,” he whines.

“Then come on.” Dean stands as Sam begrudgingly sits up and rubs at his eyes. “Ten minutes, kiddo. I’ll be in the kitchen.”  
  


\-----

  
Castiel’s television flickers on to the 6 o’clock morning news. The glare of the old analog casts the room in a harsh blue light and the muted volume is still audible under a layer of static. The low buzz slowly rouses Castiel from sleep as he blinks bleary eyes at the grainy image. The old thing is reaching the last of its days, but Castiel can’t bring himself to throw it out. It’s Lucy’s favorite napping spot, second only to Castiel himself when he lays down to sleep.

He drags himself out of bed, disturbing aforementioned cat sleeping heavily on his arm. Lucy makes a disgruntled sound before immediately seizing Castiel’s warm spot and giving him his back, purring like a made off bandit.

A quick shower and shave later, Castiel re-enters his room just in time for the weather segment. He fishes for the remote and ups the volume as he dresses. It’s promising to be a blustery day if the tree branches tapping at his bedroom window are any indication. “Bundle up!” the weatherman suggests, “It’s flu season again.” Castiel works with children, he knows his odds, and grabs his scarf from the hook on his closet door.

Today is Friday which means two things: 1) he has one last day to wrap up his social studies lesson before the field trip next week, and 2) he needs to make copies of the permission slips in the office before class. Next week will hopefully bring more promising weather as he will be escorting fifteen toddlers to South Park, Lawrence’s first and oldest park. He’d make due with at least a little bit of sunshine.

And oh, he remembers with a pleasant start, it’s finally _Friday_. In addition to work-related items on his mental to-do list, there’s also the little matter of having a date with Professor Green Eyes and Freckles Winchester. Make that three things.

Castiel makes his way to the kitchen and prepares a bowl of instant oatmeal (the microwave being the one thing he can operate without injury) before Lucy finally makes an appearance demanding his breakfast.

Castiel dutifully opens a can of wet cat food onto a small platter, then places the proffered food onto the counter. Lucy hops up gracefully and begins to eat as the microwave announces the oatmeal. The two sit together in comfortable silence until Lucy abandons his plate, spotless and clean, and nudges at Castiel’s hand.

Castiel scratches him behind the ears. “There’s a good boy.”  
  


\-----

  
By the time Sam rushes downstairs fully dressed, Dean’s serving his scrambled eggs on a plate. Sam climbs onto the chair and reaches for his fork.

"Dean! I need ketchup!" Sam announces. Dean fishes for the ketchup bottle in the fridge and places it on the kitchen island just beyond Sam's reach.

“What do we say?” Dean prompts.

Sam’s face turns serious. “I love you.”

 _Son of a--_ “The other one, Sam.”

“Oh. Pleeeeeease?” Dean slides the bottle across the island. “Thank you!”

Sam squirts an overly generous amount of ketchup onto his eggs and digs in with gusto. Dean sidles in next to Sam, his plate heavy with two eggs overeasy and a liberal side of bacon, and places a napkin on Sam’s lap.

“Don’t wipe your hands on your pants.”

The two brothers eat in silence for about two seconds before Sam strikes up a new conversation.

“Are you and Mister Milton going to be friends? Because he asked you to play with him today and he’s really nice and I like him and,” Sam takes a long gulp from his glass of milk, “you need friends.”

Dean frowns, mock offended. “Hey! I have tons of friends. I’ve got you, don’t I?”

Sam nods furiously. “We’re friends!” He eats another forkful of eggs. “You’re gonna have a playdate, can I have one, too? I wanna go to Ruby’s house. She said she has three dogs and they win prizes ‘cause they’re pretty.” Sam sips at his milk and tries to sound nonchalant. “Can we have a dog?”

Dean really has to hand it to Sam, the boy gets an A+ for persistence and effort. “Nice try, Sammy. We’ve talked about this before and the answer is still no.”

“We never talk about it. I ask and you always say no.” Sam pouts and stabs mulishly at his eggs, kicking his dangling legs against the paneling of the island.

“Sam,” Dean sighs. It hasn’t even been a full seven days since the last Dog Discussion.

“And I still want lasagna!” Sam continues, uninterrupted. “You said we would get some and then I waited and waited--”

Dean takes a bite of his bacon, savoring the crunch. After four years of raising Sam, Dean can distinguish a routine tantrum from a real one. A real tantrum usually involves a lot of crying, some biting, and on one rare occasion, a painful headbutt.

“--and I want more milk. Can I have a piece of toast?”

“Sure, you can have some toast, but you gotta eat it in the car. It’s time to get you to school.”

Sam forgets all about the milk and the toast and climbs down his chair to run into the hallway to collect his backpack and hoodie. He’s an excited bundle of energy and Dean manages to wrap a scarf around his neck and tug on the front to cover his mouth and nose. Dean then throws on his coat, grabs his car keys, and steers Sam out the door.  
  


\-----

  
Castiel lets in a cold draft as he enters the main office, a few sheets fluttering off Missouri’s desk as the door closes behind him. His coat collar is turned up in an effort to stave off the chilly air, his scarf pulled up past his nose, and his hair wind-tossed like a boat at sea.

The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles under the scarf. “Good morning, Missouri,” he greets, voice muffled by the thick alpaca knit.

“It’s not normally this cold mid-September,” Missouri comments by way of greeting. She bends to retrieve the fallen papers when she suddenly stills, her sixth sense tingling. Her eyes carefully scan the room coming upon the large glass window facing the school yard. Outside, she can see the tree leaves shaking, the heavy boughs bowing in the wind. Peculiar that this should catch her attention.

She continues to inspect the room. Something is here. Something big. Her sharp, intelligent gaze turns curious as her eyes land on Castiel, who has ambled toward the copy machine and begun to pull out a document from his bag. Every sense in her body stands on end. Oh.

Missouri stands and makes her way toward Castiel. She places a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Can I get you a coffee, hon?” she offers.

Castiel loads the feeder tray and presses the large green button. The copy machine whirrs to life.

“I can get it myself,” he politely declines. He draws away from the machine to tug off his scarf and remove his coat. When he turns back, Missouri is already holding out a fresh mug of coffee. Despite his quiet, reserved demeanor, Castiel likes his coffee extra sweet and extra light with three creams and three sugars. He accepts the drink with a small nod of his head.

“Thank you, Missouri, although I am more than capable of preparing my own coffee.”

“You hush and drink up. Let ol’ Miss Moseley momma you.”

Castiel smiles around the rim of the mug and turns back to the copy machine. An insistent red light illuminates the display screen: PAPER JAM. He sets his coffee aside with a troubled expression and investigates the machine, trying to find the source of the problem.

Missouri takes the opportunity to study him. He’s wearing a typical outfit, crisp slacks, a button down shirt, tucked in of course, a plain thin leather belt, and a charcoal wool cardigan. But there is something different about and around him, an air of excitement, an undeniable electric buzz. What is she missing, she wonders, desperately trying to understand. The wind bringing in the turn of the leaves, that same wind came in with Castiel when he stepped into the office. _The wind of change_ , her mind whispers.

It is in that moment that she knows, with a deep sense of knowing, that she _knows_.

What finally tipped off her empathic abilities, she can’t say. If she had to parse it, if she had to whittle the moment down past the meat and straight to the bone she would say that she simply looked. She looked at the man in front of her, all twenty-nine years of him, and saw the boy within waiting to love and be loved.

 _It won’t be long now_ , Missouri muses.

She shouldn’t meddle. She should not meddle.

“Honey,” she meddles, and waits as Castiel turns to look at her, his hand still tugging at the jammed paper, “is that what you’re wearing tonight?”

Castiel startles and looks down at his outfit. He runs his hand down the front of his shirt, a subconscious nervous tick, and asks, “Is this not appropriate? It’s about the normal variance for what I usually wear to work.”

“No,” she clarifies patiently, “is that what you’re wearing _tonight_?”

Castiel, bless his heart, doesn’t stop to wonder how she could possibly know about tonight, for which she is thankful. Instead he looks down again and licks his chapped lips. “Is this not appropriate?” he asks, increasingly self-conscious.

Missouri purses her lips thoughtfully. “Do you own any jeans?”

“I have a pair my sister coerced me into purchasing,” he reports.

Missouri hands him back his coffee mug and pats his cheek fondly. “Wear those.”  
  


\-----

  
Castiel ends his Social Studies lesson with an interactive project. Kevin distributes pre-cut white drawing paper and 8-packs of crayons while Castiel explains their task.

“In preparation for our field trip next week, I want you all to draw a picture of where you live. Do you live in a house? Do you live in an apartment? Do you have any pets? What about your home is important to you?”

Soon the sound of oversized crayons rubbing against thick paper joins cheerful chatter as the students work diligently on their new task. Kevin helps peel the paper away from the crayons’ whittled ends while Castiel sits with each child individually to talk about their ‘home.’

He approaches Ruby first, her long brown hair tied into a high ponytail. Castiel squats next to her desk so that they’re at eye level before pointing to three black dogs in her drawing.

“Are these your dogs?” Castiel asks.

“That’s Pepper and that’s Max and they’re famous. Coco’s still a puppy and needs training,” Ruby rattles off, “she ate my mom’s favorite shoes. They were Prada.”

Castiel hums, both amused and impressed by Ruby’s show dogs. He praises her attention to detail before moving on. He slowly makes his way around the room, stopping at each desk to discuss every student’s interpretation of ‘home.’ He learns that Ben Braden spends most of his time in his mother’s yoga studio, Adam Milligan has a baseball cap his father gave to him for his birthday, and Amy Pond’s bedroom is littered with stuffed animal foxes.

Sam is hunched over his desk, scribbling furiously. His drawings tend toward the elaborate and gruesome, so when he spots the black crayon snug in Sam’s hand, Castiel expects the worst. To his surprise, however, Sam’s interpretation of ‘home’ is remarkably tame.

“Hello, Sam,” he greets. “Want to tell me a little bit about your drawing?”

“This is my house. That’s my room,” Sam says, pointing to a large window flanked by arrows. “And that’s me and Dean.” Sam beams at his two smiling stick people. “And that’s the car! Dean says it used to be dad’s but now it’s his. Dean calls it Baby and he takes real good care of her. Once he made me a turkey sandwich and I got really mad and I hid it under the seat and then the ants found it and I got into a lot of trouble.”

Castiel bites back a laugh. Sam can be a handful in the classroom, he can’t even begin to imagine what he must be like at home. His gaze strays to a pathetic looking dog on Sam’s paper, complete with tears. “Do you have a dog, Sam?”

“Dean says I can’t have one,” Sam whines, “that’s why the dog is crying.” Sam pets the picture fondly. “But that’s okay, it’s just me and Dean and Dean is the best. He doesn’t tell anyone, but he’s a really good cook and he can bake! He makes me pumpkin pie even though apple is his favorite. Once you’re friends, I bet he’ll bake you anything. You should ask for pumpkin pie because that’s my favorite.”

Castiel smiles fondly at Sam. “It’s a very nice picture.” Sam blinks up at him. “Do you mind if I put it up on the Art of the Week wall?”

Sam’s jaw drops in disbelief. “Really?”

“Yes. Can you sign your name at the corner?”

Sam picks up the black crayon again and scrawls ‘SAM’ next to the big sad dog. He hands his finished drawing to Castiel with an enormous grin.

Castiel’s heart swells with pride at Sam’s barely-contained glee. If meetings with Dean Winchester mean more of Sam’s beaming face, then Castiel needs to schedule more parent-teacher conferences.  
  


\-----

  
“--awesome. Thanks, Becky, you’re a lifesaver.” Dean pockets his cell phone and hums cheerfully as he picks up the laundry basket full of Sam’s clean and folded clothes. He skips every other step going up the stairs, striding down the hall into Sam’s room. He works at a quick place, needing to get done several chores before his dinner plans.

His bare feet pad softly across the room. He’s a few feet away from Sam’s dresser when he steps on something small, plastic, and unforgiving. Sharp, stabbing pain rockets through his foot and he yells out, doubling over in agony.

Dean lifts his foot gingerly and peels a small, green lego away from his skin, four small circles imprinted into his arch.

“Son of a--” Dean hisses, letting the lego fall back to the floor with a clatter. He sets down the laundry basket on top of the dresser and quickly puts away Sam’s clean laundry in its respective drawers before heading downstairs to fetch the broom.

Returning to Sam’s room, Dean begins sweeping, starting at the corners furthest from the door. When he sticks the broom under Sam’s bed, he’s not surprised to hear the clacking together of small plastic pieces. He pulls the broom toward him and a small cache of legos emerges from under the bristles. When Dean told Sam to put his legos away before going to bed, this is not what he had meant.

Still, Dean is in too high spirits to feel upset over Sam’s deviousness. Instead he picks up the mess quickly, dumping the pieces in their corresponding container, and heads outside to work on the Impala.

He decides to give his baby a quick wash. She’s not dirty by any means, but he wants everything in tip top shape for tonight. Tip top includes a quick wash, a new car freshener, and most importantly, a clean and unobstructed back seat. He even polishes the leather upholstery and vacuums the floorboards.

Dean hangs the used rag over his shoulder and gives the Impala a slow once over. He whistles appreciatively and pats the hood. “Oh, baby. We are back in business.”

Polishing his baby takes longer than anticipated and when Dean checks his watch, he’s five minutes late in picking Sam up from school. He pats his pocket, feels the bulge of his wallet and keys, and hops into the driver’s seat. The Impala pulls out of the driveway with a low purr.  
  


\-----

  
“Mister Milton gave us a paper you need to sign,” Sam pipes up from the backseat. “We’re going on a field trip to the park. The one we like to go to!”

Dean glances at him through the rearview mirror.

“Give it to me when we get home, I’ll sign it for you.”

Sam fiddles with the tassels of his scarf and peers around the back seat. None of his toys are in the car, and it smells different. Sam breathes in deeply through his nose. “Dean, the car smells like Christmas.”

“It smells like pine,” he corrects.

“Why?”

“What do you mean why? Because that’s the scent I bought for the car.”

“Why?”

“Because it smells clean.”

“It smells like Christmas,” Sam corrects before turning his gaze to the window and humming quietly under his breath. “Is Jo coming over to play while you’re playing with Mister Milton?”

“Jo has a lot of homework to do tonight, so she can’t watch you today.”

“Is Uncle Bobby coming?”

“No, he’s not,” Dean braces himself, “but Beckster offered to take care of you tonight.”

“No,” Sam immediately wails, “Dean!”

“Becky’s a nice girl and she--”

“No, no, no, no, no,” Sam shakes his head emphatically. Tears instantly pool and streak down his cheeks.

“Sam--” Sam takes a breath and wails loudly, shrieking and kicking his legs against his booster seat.

Dean rubs a hand over his face and focuses on getting home as quickly as possible. Sam, meanwhile, works his hardest to sway Dean’s stance on the matter.

“De-e-a-a-an,” Sam sobs pathetically, “don’t make me stay with B-Becky.” He hiccups and continues to whimper.

“Sam, it’s just one night. I made sure to remind her you don’t eat meat.”

Sam’s wailing renews in earnest as he remembers the traumatic event. “She tried to make me eat Betsy!”

“And she’s not gonna do it again,” Dean tries to console from the driver’s seat. “Buddy, it’s just one night, okay?” Sam’s whimpering continues, but he doesn’t reply. “Buddy?”

Dean peeks a glance at Sam through the rearview mirror. Sam’s arms are crossed over his chest, head resolutely turned toward the window. His silent treatment doesn’t render its usual effect -- it’s ruined by the melodramatic sniffling and the fact that Dean knows he’s just being a little shit. His snotty face is scrunched into an expression Sam believes to be menacing, but it’s difficult to be intimidated by a 4-year old.

Dean pulls the Impala into the driveway, killing the engine. He unbuckles himself and goes to unbuckle Sam who deliberately faces away from Dean as he undoes the clasps of his booster seat. Once free, Sam pushes past Dean up the front steps of the house, foot tapping impatiently as he waits for Dean to open the door.

The front door swings open with a click and Sam runs up the stairs to his room.

“No running!” Dean yells after him. Sam slams his door in response.

Dean dumps Sam’s jacket, scarf, and backpack onto the couch and heads to the kitchen. Sam’s tantrum began typically (tears, yelling, kicking, silent treatment), but door-slamming isn’t in his repertoire. Dean frowns, opening the refrigerator and pulling out fresh celery stalks. This is different.

Closing the lid of the peanut butter jar, Dean leans against the kitchen island and stares at Sam’s after school snack. The raisins nestled in the peanut butter stare back.

Dean sighs, grabs the plate, and heads up the stairs. He knocks at Sam’s door. Silence.

“Sam, I’m coming in.”

Dean opens the door and finds Sam huddled under his blankets. The lump curls up tighter and gives its back to Dean.

“I know you’re not talking to me right now, but I made you a snack.” He sets the plate on the bedside table and notices that the little lump under the covers is shaking.

Sam’s crying for real.

“Hey now,” Dean says gently, pulling the covers back. Sam looks up at Dean and launches himself at Dean’s front, little hands grasping his shirt and his wet face pressing in at the crook of his neck. His shirt slowly grows damp, but Dean doesn’t mind as he slowly pets Sam’s back.

“What’s wrong, Sammy?” Sam shakes his head and sniffles. “Is this about the Beckster?”

Sam whimpers and nods, clinging harder to Dean’s shirt. “She’s a trickster,” he mumbles into Dean’s neck.

“A trickster?” Castiel’s warning about reading inappropriate stories for Sam’s age group comes to mind, and he suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. He can imagine him clearly, the smug expression, arms folded in a cocky manner, the I-told-you-so without ever saying, ‘I told you so.’ Dammit.

“Sammy, tricksters don’t exist. They’re just pretend.”

Sam takes in a shuddering breath. “Then w-why do you call her Beckster?” he asks, voice thick with accusation.

“Beckster’s just a nick---” Sam jerks in his arms. “Okay, okay. Um,” he fumbles, trying to problem solve his way out of this mess. If Sam thinks tricksters are real, Dean telling him otherwise is not going to change his mind. A solution slowly takes shape. It’s a little unconventional, but you don’t befriend the crazies by challenging their delusions. In fact, you do the opposite.

“What do tricksters like to eat the most?”

Sam is silent, then murmurs, “Sweet stuff. Like candy and cake.”

“That’s true,” Dean nods, encouragingly. “They’re really into sugar. Have you ever seen Becky eat a piece of candy?”

Sam ponders for a moment. “No...” he admits.

“And what does she tell you when you brush your teeth?”

Sam turns watery eyes up at Dean. “That sugar is bad for your teeth.”

“That’s right,” Dean says, brushing a thumb under Sam’s eyes. “She wears braces, too. Do you think she would wear braces to fix her teeth, then ruin them by eating candy?” Sam shakes his head. “It just wouldn’t make sense, right?”

“Right.”

Dean shifts Sam in his arms so he’s sitting in Dean’s lap. “So what did we learn?”

Sam sniffs once, nose still runny. “Becky can’t be a trickster.”

“Ding ding ding! Give the winner a prize!” Dean reaches over to the bedside table and hands Sam his snack. Sam rubs at his eyes with his sleeves and offers Dean a shaky smile.

Dean pinches his cheek. “Besides, even if she were a trickster, she’d never want to hurt you because you’re just so darn cute.”

Sam brings up a hand and touches Dean’s cheek. “You’d never let her hurt me.”

Dean swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “That’s right.” He steals a celery stick off Sam’s plate and takes a bite. “Come on. I made enough for both of us. Eat up, kiddo.”  
  


\-----

  
It’s twenty minutes until 6 o’clock and five minutes until Dean has to leave to go pick up Castiel at his apartment. Dean checks his appearance in the full-length mirror hung on his bedroom door. He’s wearing one of his nicer pairs of jeans, an ironed plaid button-up, and his boots are buffed and shined. He shoots himself a sly grin. Yeah, he’d sleep with himself, too. Which reminds him.

Dean walks over to his bedside table and opens the first drawer. He pulls out a box of condoms from the back and checks the expiration date. Still good. He tears off two packets from the roll and tucks them into his wallet. Then he tears off two more because you never know. He’s got a lucky feeling about tonight.

Sam’s Sesame Street DVD blares from the living room as Dean heads to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Grover’s warbly voice accompanies his final touch-up, and Dean pats on his cologne in time with the muppet monster’s song.

Dean trots down the stairs into the living room, picks up the remote and lowers the volume.

“Hey!” Sam protests.

Dean sets the remote just out of Sam’s reach. “I could hear the TV all the way upstairs.” Sam pouts and Dean narrows his eyes. “And why are you watching TV, anyway? Did you finish your homework?”

The doorbell rings before the interrogation can continue. Dean points meaningfully at Sam as if to say _this conversation isn’t over_. Sam ignores the message and points to the door. “Someone’s at the door.”

Someone is indeed at the door, and her teeth chatter as she enters the house. “Heya, Professor Winchester. I hope I’m not late.”

“No, you’re right on time, Becky.” He helps her out of her ridiculous pink coat and hangs it in the coat closet. They move into the kitchen as Dean gives a quick rundown on the rules. “I went ahead and made dinner, it’s in the oven. I hope you like lasagna, but you can help yourself to anything you find in the fridge.” He leads them back down the hall and pokes his head into the living room where Sam is struggling with his container of hot wheels. He frowns at Sam, who looks up guiltily at Dean. “Make sure Sam finishes his homework. No TV or any toys whatsoever until he’s done, that’s final.” Dean starts making his way to the front door, wrapping up his little speech. “He should be in bed by 8 and I should be back by 11.” He heads to the coat closet, pulls out his leather jacket, and shrugs it on.

“And you know you can call me in the case of an emergency, but if it’s serious then call 9-1-1 before you call me--”

“I know the drill, Professor,” she laughs, waving her hand as if to soothe his concerns. His totally legitimate concerns. “No worries! We’ll be fine.”

Dean pauses at the threshold of the front door. “I know he can be a handful at times.”

Becky flashes a toothy smile, braces and all. “Oh, Sam’s just a sweetheart. I could eat him right up.”

Something crashes in the living room and Sam shoots into the hall, frantically attaching himself to Dean’s leg and _tugging_.

“Do you really have to go? Please, please don’t go! Play with me instead! I don’t want you to go. Dean, please?” Sam’s grip tightens on Dean’s pant leg. Dean’s belt starts to dig into his side.

“Sam we talked about this--”

Sam turns to Becky abruptly. “Do you like lollipops?”

“Well, not particularly--”

“Liar!”  
  


\-----

  
Castiel stands in front of his full sized mirror, a feeling akin to dread coiling tight around his chest. He has a date with Dean Winchester in less than an hour and now thanks to Missouri, he has no idea what he’s going to wear.

Oh dear Father above. Dean Winchester. His student’s _guardian_. What is he thinking?

He isn’t. Asking out Dean Winchester had been a spur of the moment decision. He’d been taken by Dean’s devilishly good looks, his soft green eyes as they peered at Sam, and his firm muscles as they effortlessly picked his younger brother up off the ground. He hadn’t even given it a second thought -- something about the man made him act impetuously. Very dangerous.

He had planned to wear his work outfit to dinner. It was sensible; he knows he looks clean and neat because he buys his outfits right off the mannequins that parade them. He knows he is “color-coordinated” and “in-style,” and yet Missouri had insisted on jeans.

He digs through his closet, looking for the pair of jeans he purchased last year after Anna’s insistent cajoling. He finds them in the very back of the closet, pushed aside by slacks and steam-pressed collared shirts. He slips them on and is ashamed to admit he has to wriggle his way into them.

“You have to buy them a size too small, Cas,” Anna had informed him. “Denim stretches, but you still want to show off that ass.”

Said ass is currently trying to breathe, but he dutifully struggles with the button and pulls up the zipper with a huff of victory. They fit a little snug, but then again, that is the point. They’re a dark wash (“Serious jeans because you’re the boring type,” Anna had teased lovingly) and Castiel is pleased to note they are the right length.

He ends up pairing his jeans with a light blue button up, tucked in at the waist and buttoned all the way up to the top. It looks like a combination Anna would approve of for a date. He briefly considers just calling and asking her, but that would also involve admitting to having a date in the first place and he knows she would tell Gabriel and just no. No, no, no.

He grabs a thin brown leather belt and fishes it through the belt loops. He stares at himself critically in the mirror and assess the outfit he’s put together. He unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt experimentally. There. Now he’s sophisticated _and_ casual. Casually sophisticated.

“Fashion is very confusing,” he admits to Lucy, who watches him lazily from the top of the television.  
  


\-----

  
Dean drums his fingers on the steering wheel as Hot Blooded pounds through the speakers. He is loathe to admit that it’s been a while since he’s gotten laid. The fact that he needs music to help pump him up for tonight’s date is almost embarrassing. Still, the music seeps into his body like an energy shot. Minutes before he pulls up to Castiel’s apartment, he’s ready to lay on the Winchester Charm.

Traffic is lighter than expected and Dean arrives at the apartment six minutes early. He takes a moment to drink in his surroundings. While Dean lives in a quiet little corner a few minutes drive from the university, Castiel lives in a busier part of town, two- and three-story apartment complexes making up most of the area. Despite it being a bustling place, the neighborhood is tidy and well-kept, with trees lining the road. Dean checks his phone to confirm the address, still four minutes early. The radio starts to play Blue Öyster Cult and Dean waits to call Castiel to tell him he’s here. He doesn’t want to seem too eager. He’ll call right on time, show he’s punctual, interested. Yeah.

The song starts to fade as the radio host cuts in, and Dean leans over to shut off the radio. He presses ‘Dial’ on his phone and stares at the building’s façade. Castiel picks up after two rings.

“Hello?” Castiel rumbles sexily.

“Castiel? It’s Dean Winchester.” Dean feels his face flush. _What?_

“Oh, yes, hello. How are you?”

“I’m fine.” Dean clears his throat. “Actually, I’m outside your apartment.”

“Oh.” Dean thinks he imagines the panicked quality to Castiel’s tone. “I’ll be out in a minute or two. Is that alright?”

“Sure, take your time.”  
  


\-----

  
Lucy’s tail flicks excitedly as Castiel paces through the apartment. He spent so long fixating on his outfit that he completely forgot to schedule in time for his hair. He struggles into a pullover, pulls on his trench coat, and wraps a scarf around his neck. He makes to the door and stops right before putting his hand on the knob. _It will just take a second_ , he reasons as he heads back to his bedroom one final time, tugging his brush through his hair in a last ditch effort to look presentable.

Castiel is simultaneously graced and cursed with a head of thick, healthy and unruly dark brown hair. He puts his brush down and looks into his mirror. His hair sticks up in stubborn, uneven tufts. He looks like he just rolled out of bed. _Dean is going to think I didn’t try at all_ , he rues.

Lucy reaches up to play with the end of his scarf, but Castiel pulls away before a claw can snag on a thread. He hurries back to the front door, grabs his keys off the hook by the door and pockets his wallet.

“I’m off, Lucy. Don’t make a mess.” Lucy pulls into a stretch and curls into a ball on the couch, watching the door with one lazy eye.  
  


\-----

  
When Castiel finally exits his apartment complex, he is greeted by Dean seated on the hood of a sleek, black car. He’s seated comfortably, leaning back lazily and balancing his weight on his hands. The second Dean spots him, he jumps off and lands solidly on his feet.

 _Oh_ , Castiel thinks. “I hope you didn’t wait long,” he says.

“Uh, no, no. Not at all.” Dean licks his lips, mouth suddenly dry. Castiel looks _really_ good. He didn’t seem like the jean-wearing kind of guy, but damn. He needs to stop wearing slacks and slip into a pair of Levis more often. Even the trenchcoat can’t hide those muscular thighs and Dean is struck by an overwhelming desire to bite them. _Knockin’ me out with those American thighs_ , his mind helpfully offers as the soundtrack to Dean’s fantasies. Thank you, AC/DC.

Dean snaps to and hastily opens the car door for Castiel, who nods in thanks and brushes close as he slides into the car.

“Nice car,” he murmurs and Dean has to fight back a smug grin.

He shuts the door behind him and struggles to regain his composure before getting in behind the wheel. _Come on, Winchester. Pull yourself together._  
  


_\-----_

  
The car ride to the restaurant turns awkward very quickly. Castiel sits perfectly still, back ramrod straight with his hands on his lap. Silence pervades the space, the only sounds coming from the heater, set to medium-high and slowly fogging up the side windows. Now would be the perfect opportunity to charm the pants off Cas, but Dean finds himself unable to think of anything suave to say.

“So...” Dean begins instead, lamely. “The Roadhouse’s okay with you?”

Castiel nods, a short, curt movement. “Yes. Their burgers are quite good.”

“Okay, cool. Just checking,” Dean winces. What the hell is wrong with him? Now is not the time to act like a thirteen year old virgin with a crush. “Do you go there often?” _Seriously??_

“Now and again,” Castiel responds distractedly, fingers fidgeting with the lapels of his coat.

“You can take that off, you know. You’re pretty hot,” Dean’s jaw snaps shut at the Freudian slip. “Uh, I mean, you look a little hot. I mean, you are a little hot, I mean you’re more than a little hot, you’re like a lot,” Dean’s voice dies down in embarrassment, “hot.”

Castiel begins to laugh; it’s not a mocking sound, but an incredibly amused one. The slope of his shoulders relaxes into a more natural posture and he turns to look at Dean who is resolutely staring at the road ahead.

“Yeah alright, laugh it up, Chuckles.” Dean grunts, but there’s a hint of a smile. “How about I try again,” Dean proposes. “How was your week?”

Castiel looks surprised by the question. “My week? It’s been pleasant, but it’s also not quite over.” He turns to Dean and smiles, teasing. “I’ll have to make a reassessment at the end of the night.”

“I hope you curb your grading,” Dean jokes.

“Are you implying I’ll need to?”

“Hell no.”  
  


\-----

  
As expected, The Roadhouse is decently packed for a Friday night. Dean and Castiel shake off the cold as the hostess makes her way to the front.

“Hi, I’m Jo and I’ll-- oh, it’s just you,” she directs to Dean.

“Nice to see you, too,” Dean deadpans.

Jo opens her mouth, a playful retort on the tip of her tongue, when she spots Castiel standing behind Dean. It takes her less than a second to put one and one together and get GAY DATE. Dean can see the cogs turning in Jo’s head and knows the whole extended family will hear about tonight before dessert.

“Do you think we could get a booth somewhere a little quiet?” Castiel requests, looking around the busy restaurant.

Jo has the decency to at least pretend to be professional as she turns on her heel and leads them to the most private booth near the bar.

“Anything to start with, boys?”

“Beer from the tap for me, thanks.” Dean opens his menu to the entree page.

Castiel peers at the drink selection. “I’ll have a beer as well. Your imported draft, please.”

“Sure thing.”

Dean follows Jo with his gaze as she approaches Ellen at the bar. They drop into conspiratorial whispers while shooting their table not-so-discreet glances. Typical. Movement in his peripheral vision catches his attention. Castiel is shrugging out of his trenchcoat and struggling out of his pullover. Dean’s brain promptly shuts down. Castiel isn’t built, but he’s toned and lithe. He has a runner’s body, slim hips, and strong thighs he wants to see straddle his lap.

“Dean?”

“Wh- huh?”

“I asked, ‘Should I be jealous?’” He tilts his head in the direction of the bar.

“I hope you’re joking,” he deadpans. “Jo’s like a sister to me.”

“Just making sure,” Castiel murmurs, then busies himself with perusing the menu.

Dean is suddenly very warm and he slips off his own jacket, draping it over the back of his seat and rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. Castiel’s eyes slide off the pastas and straight to Dean’s biceps, still discernable under the sleeves. He’s usually not one to blaspheme, but Lord Almighty. It’s quickly becoming apparent that Dean Winchester is a deliciously generous package. Gorgeous man, gorgeous car, just plain gorgeous. He doesn’t realize he’s staring until Dean shifts under the intense scrutiny.

“You gotta try the burgers, they’re top notch.”

Castiel berates himself for getting caught staring. “I was planning on ordering one, but I always try to see if something else catches my eye. It seems my stomach is quite set on a burger, though.” He smiles over his menu and Dean’s stomach does a little flip.

Jo returns with their beers, setting them down with a thunk. Castiel wipes the foam spilling over the lip of his glass with a finger and brings it to his mouth to suck clean. Dean stares unabashedly.

Jo clears her throat. “You guys ready to order?”

“I believe so,” Castiel replies. “I’ll have the Classic Roadhouse Burger, medium rare, hold the pickles.”

“Okay. The usual for you, Dean?”

“The Hogtied Cheeseburger, extra bacon. Medium rare.”

Jo rolls her eyes. “You eat so much bacon you’re practically a pig.”

Dean levels her a glare.

“Alright, alright, I’ll go get your food.” She walks away, but manages to catch Dean say, “Ignore her, Cas...”

Aha. So his name is Cas? Time to tell mom.  
  


\-----

  
“--so the guy has no idea what I’m talking about and miraculously pulls the answer out of his ass. If he weren’t so ballsy I’d have failed him on the spot.”

“I’ve never had to fail anyone,” Castiel muses.

“Dude, are you serious?” Dean exclaims, momentarily forgetting Castiel teaches children.

“Can you imagine failing a four year old? For what, unsatisfactory fingerpainting?” Castiel puts down his half-eaten burger and picks up a fry. “In a way I’m glad. Everyone does their best and everyone passes.”

Dean steals a fry off Cas’s plate, long since running out of his own. “I could not teach children. I don’t know how you do it, Cas.”

The repeated nickname brings a smile to Castiel’s face. “I do what makes me happy. For example,” he says, holding up his burger, “these burgers make me very happy. So I shall eat them.” He takes a bite as if to prove his point, closing his eyes as he chews thoughtfully.

Dean’s heart suddenly races. Dear god, this man is perfect. If he loves pie, Dean’s set for life.

They finish their respective burgers in comfortable silence until Jo comes by to clear the table. She throws her dish rag casually over one shoulder and whips her order pad out of her waist apron.

She flashes a pretty grin at Castiel, flipping the order pad open. “Would you like some dessert, sugar?”

“No, thank you,” he returns politely at the same moment that Dean says, “You know the answer’s yes, Jo.”

Jo rolls her eyes and snorts. “The answer’s always yes with you, porky.”

Dean wraps a protective arm around his stomach. “That’s no way to treat a paying customer, Joanna Beth.”

“Would you like to file a complaint with management?” Jo turns to the bar and shouts. “Hey, Ma!”

“Just get us some hot apple pie, a la mode, please. And get out of here before your mother comes over.”

Jo smiles prettily, feeling victorious. Dean’s a pushover when he’s on a date with a cute boy. She’ll remember this when she needs to force his hand in her favor. “I’ll bring two spoons.”

“I’m assuming her mother runs this establishment?”

Dean takes a drink from his beer. “Yeah, they’re good people. They helped me take care of Sam while I was still in school. Well, not just them, but still.”

“That must have been difficult.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean fiddles with his napkin. “Oh hey, check this out.” He folds the napkin methodically on his lap, hiding it from view until it’s complete. “Tah-dah. It works better with cloth napkins. More flexible.”

“It’s a crude approximation, but I suppose it’s rather well done for a paper napkin.”

“Don’t knock on my penis napkin.”

“As long as I can knock on something else,” Castiel delivers, straight-faced.

Dean chokes on his beer.

“Ugh, get a room. Here’s your pie.” Jo unceremoniously dumps the pie onto the table, droplets of ice cream splattering onto the wood.

“Oh baby, come to papa.” Dean slides the plate between them, offering Cas his spoon and taking up his own. “This is the only way to have apple pie, Cas. Trust me. Straight outta the oven with some old-fashioned vanilla ice cream on top.”

“I’m not really one for pie,” Cas admits.

“Just try it. I’ll convert you yet.” Dean takes a generous bite of pie and ice cream and sheds any sense of decency as he moans around the spoon. “Oh, that is so _good_.”

Cas’s bite is conservative in comparison, but the burst of sweet hot and cold on his tongue draws an unbidden sound of surprise. “It _is_ good,” Cas agrees, and takes another bite.

“Like manna from heaven, am I right, angel?”

Cas’s spoon stops right before his mouth. “You looked up my name, didn’t you?”

“I know a thing or two about angels. It kind of falls right into supernatural lore. So I’m guessing you were born on a Thursday?”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you are trying to impress me.”

“Is it working?”

“Very much, yes.”

Between the two of them, the pie slowly disappears and the ice cream pools at the bottom of the plate where the spoons can’t reach. Dean is the first to give up on his spoon, swiping his index finger across the middle of the plate to collect a dab of melted ice cream. He brings the finger to his mouth, tongue licking the finger clean in one broad swipe. Castiel follows the movement with a half-lidded gaze.

Everything about Dean seems to demand his full attention. From his youthful and boyish personality to the confident ease of his sexuality, Dean is a maddeningly attractive mix of sex and innocence, intelligence and base humor. Having Dean’s undivided attention is intoxicating, and it’s a feeling Castiel will hate to relinquish. It’s possible, Castiel realizes with a jolt, that he may already be quite taken with a man he’s only just met. The thought startles him, but when Dean offers him ice cream from the tip of his finger, the ice cream is not the only thing that melts.  
  


\-----

  
Dean and Castiel stay until closing time, only realizing the hour when the background din of hungry patrons fades into the distant sound of Jo pulling stools away from the bar to make way for the broom.

Both Dean and Castiel fumble for their wallets before Ellen meets them at their table.

“We’re closed and I ain’t counting the till twice. Just go on home, you two.”

Castiel begins to protest. “I couldn’t possibly--”

“I’m buying your customer loyalty with a meal. Think of it as a courtesy with ulterior motives. Now get.” Castiel slowly shrugs into his pullover, knowing a losing battle when he sees one. “Dean, don’t forget to bring Sam around sometime. The boy’s too thin. At this rate he’ll be stuck in that booster chair til kingdom come. What he needs is a real Harvelle feast to fatten him up. And Cas,” she tests the name on her tongue, deciding she likes it, “sweetie, I hope to see more of you.”

Dean tips an imaginary hat. “Thanks for the meal, Ellen.”

The two take their leave and walk briskly through the parking lot, making a beeline to the Impala and the promise of a heater. Dean goes to unlock Cas’s door first like a true gentleman and gets as far as shoving the key in the lock before he suddenly finds himself shoved back against the Impala, Castiel pressing in close and kissing the lights out of him.

The shock is only momentary, and he’s quick to get with the program, his hands finding Cas’s scarf and pulling him in closer as their lips lock. The cold completely forgotten, Dean focuses on Cas’s hot tongue sliding against his own, the thigh pressing in between his legs, and Cas’s insistent hands creeping around the hem of his shirt.

Dean would never admit to getting lost in the kiss, but he was definitely very focused. Why else would he fail to notice the car key digging into his back and Jo coming outside to throw out the trash?

“Oh my god,” Jo gasps, “get a room you guys. You’re worse than the cats in the alley.”

Dean jumps as Cas pulls away with a breathless laugh.

“Isn’t it past your curfew? Go back inside,” Dean snarks.

Jo flips him the bird and goes back inside promising, “I’m telling Ma what I saw!”

Cas steps close again and nuzzles his neck, nipping at his jaw. “I’m sorry. I’ve wanted to do that all night.”

“No, that’s uh.” Dean clears his throat. “That’s totally okay with me.” One kiss turns into two, turns into three. The kisses turn frantic before Dean remembers they’re still standing in a parking lot, freezing their balls off. And frozen balls are blue balls (in a way), which is the opposite of what he wants.

“What do you say we get out of here?” Cas nods and Dean opens the car door. Castiel slides into the car while Dean knocks off the fall foliage caught in the windshield wipers. He settles into the driver’s seat, turning the key in the ignition and the heater to its hottest setting. Dean turns to look at Cas.

“Is some music okay with you?”

“Of course,” Cas nods. Dean presses the power button before he shifts gears to pull out of the parking space.

_“--s just after 10 o’clock, you folks are listening to Loooove Hour--”_

Dean hastily shuts off the radio. “I don’t usually listen to that,” he laughs nervously.

Castiel does not comment on the radio station, focusing instead on the time. “Do you think you can drive quickly? I want to be able to kiss you again.”

Dean steps on it.  
  


\-----

  
The second Dean pulls up to the curb and kills the engine, Cas is back in his personal space, manhandling him up against the driver’s door and carding a hand through his hair. Castiel is stronger than he lets on, and a spike of desire shoots straight to Dean’s crotch. The kisses are rough and Cas tugs on his hair painfully and this is what Dean loves about sleeping with men -- the power struggle, the physicality, the push and pull toward dominance. Dean’s not a bottom, but holy fuck. If Cas is this aggressive, maybe he wouldn’t mind giving it a shot.

Given Castiel’s profession working with kids, it is a complete turnaround to discover the dormant alpha within. Castiel takes complete control of their makeout session, slipping in tongue, nipping at his neck and jawline, suckling on his earlobe, and managing to pull small moans from Dean’s lips as if he were a fucking virgin.

The Impala creaks on its suspension when Castiel suddenly pulls away, smiling as Dean leans forward, trying to recapture his lips. Cas keeps him firmly pinned.

“What’s the matter?” Dean demands. He’s hot, he’s bothered, and he’s got a boner with Cas’s name all over it.

“It’s late. I believe you said we only had until eleven.”

Dean looks over at the dashboard. The clock blinks 11:08pm. Son of a bitch.

Castiel kisses the scowl off Dean’s face. “Call me, if you feel so inclined.” He slides out of the car and walks into his apartment building, punching in the security code before entering. Once he’s safely indoors and out of sight, Dean exhales slowly.

Did he really just spend three hours having dinner with someone, and then spend one hour _just_ making out? Something is seriously wrong, here. Whatever happened to Hole-In-One Winchester?

He tries to feel upset at the way his night ended versus the way it _could_ have ended, but his heart’s not in it. He enjoyed himself, more than he’s ever enjoyed himself on any date in the past. He’d be walking on air -- if he were walking. As it is, the Impala purrs to life beneath him and they coast home together.  
  


\-----

  
When Dean gets back to the house, Sam opens the front door before he’s even on the porch. Dean gives Sam a disapproving look.

“Sam,” he starts, “what have I told you about opening the door by yourself?”

Sam’s bad mood is palpable. “But I knew it was you,” he scowls, “I heard the car.”

“That’s no excuse. Why aren’t you in bed?”

“Why are you late?”

Becky runs into the foyer, stopping behind Sam. “I’m so sorry! We were in the kitchen and I turned for a second to get a glass of water and then he was gone and I heard the front door open and--”

Dean tries to calm her, but once Becky gets on a roll, it’s easiest to let her get it all out. Dean picks Sam up, and he immediately nestles under Dean’s chin.

“--but it’s not like we live in New York or anything and it’s pretty safe around here and Sam was very well behaved like usual except he didn’t want to go to bed so I thought maybe he was still hungry because he only ate half his lasagna but he did eat his broccoli which doesn’t usually happen with kids so I guess you’re glad he eats his veggies-- Oh my.”

Dean sets Sam down and nudges him inside toward the stairs. Sam banks left and heads to the den. When he turns back at Becky, she’s trying and failing to look anywhere but at his neck. Dean rubs an absentminded hand over his collarbone and feels the beginnings of a bruise. _That sneaky bastard._

Dean pulls his wallet out of his pocket. “How much do I owe you for staying past eleven?”

Becky starts. “What? Oh no, I couldn’t possibly take extra, Professor! Just the usual should suffice. We had a lot of fun playing today. He’s just the sweetest!” She turns to look where Sam disappeared into the den. “I’m sure he’ll grow up to be a real lady-killer.”

Dean helps her back into her coat and pushes an extra twenty into her palm anyway. “Thanks for taking care of Sam, Beckster.” Dean hears a tin container rattle as toy soldiers tumble onto the carpet. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to put a certain little monster to bed.”

Goodbyes and good nights are exchanged, and Dean shuts the front door with an exhausted sigh. He trudges to the den and finds Sam making battle plans with his soldiers.

“Now is not the time for playing. To bed with you.” Dean lifts Sam up from under his armpits and pulls him away from his toys as Sam protests, “But I’m not tired!”

“It’s way past your bedtime, of course you’re tired.” Dean shifts Sam under his arm, holding him like a football. “Did you brush your teeth?”

“Yes,” Sam punctuates with a yawn.

“Good,” he answers, before putting them both to bed.


	3. Great Un-Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unexpected events, unexpected discoveries, one great playdate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, but better late than never, eh? Thank you to all our wonderful readers new and old. And to all of you who leave us feedback, message us, poke us and provoke us...thank you! Hope you enjoy and let us know what you think!

“Alright, Sammy, close your eyes.” Sam drops the submarine and scrunches his eyes shut as Dean pours warm water over his head, rinsing out the shampoo. Suds slide down from the crown of Sam’s head and join the bubbles in the opaque bath water.

“Can I look now?”

“Not yet.” Dean gives Sam’s hair a final rinse, pleased to see the water run clear. He sweeps Sam’s wet bangs off his forehead. “Alright, bath’s over.” Dean reaches for a towel.

Sam stands quickly, the water sloshing up against the sides of the tub. Sam’s favorite bath time toys -- a submarine, a tiny water pistol, and a red plastic stegosaurus -- bob half-concealed in the soapy water. Sam shakes his hair wildly, water droplets flying off in all directions. Dean wraps a large towel around him, lifts him out of the tub, and sets him on the bathroom rug. Sam immediately takes off to his room, leaving a trail of water in his wake.

“No running,” he reminds Sam. Dean turns back to the tub and pulls the stopper, letting the water drain. He flips the light switch and follows Sam to his room.

Sam is standing on his bed, shivering in his towel. “Dean, it’s cold.”

Dean hands Sam his underwear. “That’s because you’re wet. Put these on.”

Sam begins to rub himself dry. He steps into his Batman patterned underwear and pulls them up with a smart snap of the elastic. “Pajamas?”

Dean pulls out a pair of flannel pajama pants and a blue thermal long sleeve. Sam pulls on the pants and grins at Dean. “Thanks, Dean!” he chirps before he jumps off his bed and runs off, hair still wet and little feet thundering down the stairs.

“I thought you were cold!” Dean yells after him. He picks up Sam’s towel, abandoned on the floor, and the thermal shirt before following his little brother downstairs. Sam is in the den, legos and army men already littered on the floor around him.

Put your shirt on, Sam.” Sam pouts and struggles through the sleeves. “Now hold still.” Dean places the towel over his head and starts rubbing his hair dry.

“Dean,” Sam whines, “stop it, I can do it myself.”

“Then why are you making me do it?” Dean teases.

Sam pulls his head out from under the towel and huffs. “‘m dry.”

Dean gives up and tosses the towel in the laundry room before heading to the living room. His students’ papers are spread out over the coffee table and he can’t put off grading them much longer. He settles down on the couch and uncaps his red pen with his teeth. He pulls the nearest paper off the table and begins to read.

Halfway through his second paper -- and his second ‘C’ by the looks of it -- Sam peeks out from the den.

“Can I play in the living room? I won’t make a mess,” he promises, eyes wide and pleadingly innocent.

“If you can keep the volume down, then sure, kiddo.”

Sam mimes pulling a zipper closed over his mouth and disappears back into the den. He reemerges carrying an armful of green soldiers and a toy tank.

Sam drops his toys with a loud clatter. Dean clears his throat pointedly, and Sam looks up. “Sorry!” he apologizes, then seems to remember himself and repeats, quieter, “sorry!”

They settle into a comfortable semi-silence, Dean working his way through the first stack of papers while Sam whisper-orders his green men into complicated formations. Sam’s make-believe war rises in tension -- there are traitors in their midsts, men are defecting, morale is low. When Sam’s war reaches a boiling point, the tank rolls in to restore the peace. He presses the sound effect buttons located on the side of the tank and Dean’s attention is blasted away with the accompanying explosions. A lone toy soldier lands on Dean’s lap.

Dean quirks an eyebrow and Sam shrugs by way of explanation. “He ‘sploded.”

Dean places the soldier on top of his stack of graded papers and brings a finger up to his lips, signaling for quiet.

“Sorry,” Sam giggles, mimicking the motion.

The war is over, peace is achieved, and silence settles in its wake. Sam rolls the unneeded tank back into the den, crawling all the way. He returns with a jumbo coloring book and a box of crayons. Sam lays stomach-down and props himself onto his elbows, arranging the crayons in rainbow order and flipping to an unmarked page toward the back of the coloring book. The scratch of a pen and the dull sound of crayons rubbing against paper fill the room, punctuated by the occasional turning of a page.

Half an hour later and nearly done with both his classes’ papers, Dean pauses to stretch and roll his shoulders. Sam looks up from his coloring book and puts the crayons back in their box before making his way to Dean’s side on the couch. Dean stops reading another awful paper on vampires and their “romantic” gestures in converting their human lovers to peer at Sam. Sam blinks back at him.

“Can I watch?”

Dean simply drapes his left arm around Sam, letting him settle into his side before continuing to grade the last of the pile.  
  


\-----

  
When Dean tucks Sam into bed that night, Sam’s docile as a lamb. He rubs his eyes with drowsy indulgence and looks up at Dean.

“Dean,” Sam yawns, “can I go to Ruby’s house tomorrow? Ruby lives with her mama and her mama said I could come over.”

Dean frowns. “Ruby’s the friend with the dogs, right?”

“I want to pet them! Dean, please? Pleeeaaase?”

Dean turns on the bedside lamp and turns off the main light. Sam’s pleading eyes glimmer in the soft glow of the lamp. “Well,” Dean sighs, knowing he doesn’t have a legitimate reason not to let him go, “how about I meet Ruby’s mom tomorrow? Then maybe you can go over Friday after school.”

Sam kicks off his blankets in a fit of joy. “I’m gonna play with puppies!”

“Easy there, cowboy. It’s not set in stone--” but Sam’s not listening, already lost in the prospect of a playdate with Ruby and her dogs.

Once Sam settles back down, Dean tucks him in again and kisses Sam on the forehead. “Night, kiddo.”

Sam’s hand snags Dean’s sleeve as he pulls away.

“You haven’t read me a story yet!” Sam had been on the brink of sleep when Dean carried him upstairs, but it seemed he had found his second wind.

“Alright, hold on.”

In light of Castiel’s concern, the two had come to a mutual agreement that it would be in Sam’s best interest to read ‘age-appropriate reading material.’ Dean hadn’t mentioned it at the time, but Sam’s bookshelf is very much lacking in anything Cas might venture to call ‘appropriate.’

He’s about to make due with a story from the complete collection of Brothers Grimm Fairy Tales when his eyes stray. Laying innocently on its side is a well-loved and familiar book. It’s a heavy tome, leatherbound, and the binding is worn but intact. The pages are made of thick parchment and the entire text is handwritten in a dark, black ink.

Dean weighs his options.

He walks back over to Sam’s bed and sits on the edge, propping the old book open on his lap.

“Uncle Bobby’s book!”

Dean smiles and turns the pages thoughtfully. This will have to do until he can get himself to the bookstore.

“Sam,” he begins, “have I ever read you anything about skinwalkers?”  
  


\-----

  
“--and they’re not _good_ because they’re monsters but they don’t eat people so they’re not _bad_ and they can turn into animals and they’re really fast and--”

Castiel closes his eyes and lets out a slow breath. Sam is especially enthusiastic about today’s painting, what is presumably a skinwalker in mid-transformation from a plump middle-aged man into possibly a coyote. There’s not a drop of blood to be found in today’s painting, he notes, which is a vast improvement. Still, Dean had promised lighter bedtime material. Perhaps his first mistake had been to assume Dean _owned_ lighter bedtime material.

Not easily discouraged, Castiel sets to rectify this surmountable problem. As the children begin to clean up at the end of the day, he pulls out several books from the bookcase and organizes them into a small pile for Sam to take home.

“Sam,” he explains, when he pulls him aside, “you are a very smart boy so I’m going to give you a special homework assignment.”

Sam’s head pops up through the hoodie he’s struggling to put on. “What kind of homework?”

“I am going to lend you some of my favorite books. I want you to read one book every night with Dean. When you’re done, bring them back and I’ll lend you more. Do you think you can do that?” Sam nods eagerly and Castiel helps him place the books in his Thor-themed backpack.

Sam pulls the zipper closed and shrugs on his bag. Castiel fishes his hood from underneath the shoulder strap and ushers him toward the door. “Start with _If You Give a Mouse a Cookie_ and we’ll take it from there.”

“Yessir, Mister Milton!” Sam salutes before spotting his classmates and running out into the playground.  
  


\-----

  
Castiel is wiping dried tempera paint off the desks with a damp rag when his phone vibrates in his pocket.

“Hello?” he answers.

“Guess who’s cooking Thanksgiving dinner this year?” Anna’s cheerful voice greets him.

“We’re planning Thanksgiving already? And please tell me it’s not Gabriel.”

“I want us to eat together, not die together,” Anna laughs. “No, I will, provided you provide me with comfortable lodging and VIP access to your kitchen.”

“Of course, my home is always open to you.” Castiel glances at the large, blocky calendar in the classroom. “Have you bought your tickets yet?”

“I wanted to make sure you’d be available to host us before buying the tickets,” Anna explains. “Inias misses you very much.”

Inias’s voice chimes over the line as if on cue. “Mama! Mama! Up! Up!”

“Oh, hold on. Here’s the little angel now.” Anna lets out a small grunt as she presumably hoists the three year-old up onto her hip. “Say hello,” she instructs.

“Uncle Cath!” Inias lisps into the phone happily.

“Hello, Inias.” Castiel imagines Inias cradling Anna’s phone and pressing it close to his face. “Have you used the tricycle I gave you for your birthday?”

“Mama taked me to the park,” Inias states proudly.

“She took you to the park?” Castiel gently corrects.

“Yeah she took me.”

“Did you ride your tricycle there?”

“Yeah! At the park!”

Castiel hums in agreement, rubbing at a spot of brown paint sticking steadfast to the surface of a desk. “Did you play in the sand?”

“No,” Inias grumbles, “thand dirty.”

“Speaking of dirty, Inias has to take a bath! Isn’t that right, baby?” Inias squeals a laugh. “Okay, say goodbye to your Uncle Cas.”

“Bye-bye Uncle Cath, love you!” Inias takes off across the living room of Anna’s one-story home. “Bath! Bath!”

“Okay, Cas, I’m going to let you go--oh! Before I forget,” Anna says, voice rushed, “quick update on Gabriel: don’t mention Kali.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Are they off again?”

“I think for good this time. Then again,” Anna seems to reconsider, “it’s always ‘for good’ with those two.”

“They make quite the dramatic pair. It’s very...” Cas fumbles for a suitable descriptor.

“Hollywood?” Anna supplies helpfully. “They don’t work in tinseltown for nothing.”

Inias calls impatiently from the bathroom. “Mama!”

“Coming, sweetie! Sorry, Cas, motherhood calls. I’ll buy tickets for a week before, that sound good?”

“Let me know when you have all the details. I’d like to pick you up from the airport.”

Anna hangs up with a promise to call again and Castiel pockets his phone. From the open door, he can hear the children running and playing in the schoolyard, little voices yelling “You’re it!” in rounds. A chilly breeze sweeps into the classroom and Castiel shivers. He deposits the dirty rag in the storage room sink, then goes to pull on his sweater.

When his heads pops up through his crew-neck pullover, he is greeted with a handsome sight. Dean Winchester is leaning in the doorway, posture relaxed with his hands in his pockets.

“Dean,” Castiel greets, pulling his sweater the rest of the way down to cover his torso.

“Hey,” Dean smiles as he pushes off the door jamb with his hip. “I was outside waiting for Ruby’s mom and I figured since I’m here...” he trails off and shrugs.

“You figured you’d come and say hello,” Castiel finishes for him.

“Something like that.” He walks forward until the two are standing barely a breath apart, and Castiel has to tilt his head back the slightest fraction of an angle to look Dean in the eyes.

“Well it’s a good thing you did. I have something for you,” Castiel exhales, voice deep.

“Do you now,” Dean’s voice drops an octave.

“Yes,” Castiel says curtly, turning abruptly to snatch a folder off his desk. He hands it to Dean, who shoots him a confused look before opening it. Inside there is a single painting -- and it’s totally the skinwalker from last night’s bedtime story. Fuck.

“Uh, not quite what I had in mind.” Dean jokes.

Castiel crosses his arms. “Not quite what I had in mind either. Dean Winchester, do you not recall the reason we even met? This,” he points, “is the reason, in case you forgot.”

“Well when you put it like that, you make it sound like it’s a good thing,” he smiles disarmingly.

“Dean,” Castiel admonishes, but his self-righteous flare of anger dampens a bit.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry!” Dean closes the folder and sets it down. “I’ve been meaning to go book shopping. Would you,” Dean shifts his weight to one side, “want to come?”

“Evidence does seem to imply you need guidance in the matter.”

Dean barks a laugh and leans on Cas’s desk. “So what are you doing Friday night? Sam’s going on a playdate. We could, too,” he proposes, “maybe even pick up where we left off.”

“ _Very_ tempting,” Castiel mock-deliberates, moving into Dean’s personal space.

“Sounds like you need a little convincing,” Dean plays along, but sees Castiel’s gaze flit between Dean’s eyes and mouth.

“You’re making me want to kiss you,” Castiel confesses.

Dean hooks his fingers through Castiel’s belt loops and tugs him forward. “Well,” he says, tilting his head down, “who’s gonna see?”

“Dean!” Sam rushes into the room, grass stains on his knees. Dean and Castiel hastily push apart. “My backpack is heavy,” he thrusts it into Dean’s side, “you take it.” Sam speeds away back to the schoolyard.

“You say ‘ _please_ ,’ Sam!” Dean turns back to Cas, cheeks and ears tinged pink. He strings an arm through the shoulder straps and picks up the discarded folder. “I’m, uh, I’m gonna go put these in the car.”  
  


\-----

  
Dean doesn’t make it to the car.

It happens in slow motion, an eternity in what actually happens in mere seconds. One moment his baby is parked and safe and whole; the next, a sleek, dark blue Bentley Mulsanne pulls up to the curb and parks right into the back bumper of his precious Impala. The loud crunch of the car’s frame echoes in his ears and he’s yelling well before he reaches the scene of the crime.

“No no no no no! What are you doing? Are you blind?” He yells at the driver who exits the car.

A woman with a posh accent emerges, looking generally unperturbed and slightly annoyed. “--I’m going to have to let you go. Some idiot is yelling about his car. No, I’ll call you later.”

“Damn straight I’m yelling about my car,” Dean gesticulates angrily. He glances at the damage and feels his stomach lurch. “I’m going to be sick,” he declares.

The woman pulls off her sunglasses and nestles them in her hair. Her pumps click on the asphalt as she assesses where the two cars have crunched together like the proverbial beast with two backs.

“I don’t see what you’re on about. It’s barely a scratch.”

If he could kill her with a glare she’d be dead ten times over. “You dented the rear bumper! You forced the trunk open and now it won’t close!” He can feel himself turning hysterical.

The woman looks on impassively before turning to run a hand over the hood of her car fondly. Through some act of God, Dean notes with bitter resentment, her car has remained mostly unscathed. If only the same could be said about his baby.

The woman smiles smugly. “You can get yourself a better car,” she mock-consoles, “let that old thing retire.”

“That ‘old thing’,” Dean snaps, “is a 1967 Chevy Impala. That is what we here in the _States_ call a classic car, you--”

“Dean.” Castiel’s authoritative voice cuts him off and Dean closes his mouth with an audible click.

“ _What_ ,” Dean grits out.

Castiel surreptitiously points out the circle of people amassing around them. Several children and their rubbernecking parents curiously peer on.

“Mommy!!” Ruby comes running out of the front gate, skirt flowing around her knees and arms thrown wide.

“Hello, sweetheart!” The woman scoops Ruby up and spins her in a circle. She gracefully perches Ruby on her hip, then turns to Dean. “Look,” she says, irritated, “get a quote for the damage and send me the bill. Here’s my card.” She pulls a card from her coat and hands it over before dismissing him entirely and showering her daughter with kisses. Ruby squeals in delight.

Dean squints at the business card. _Bela Talbot, Auctioneer, Christie’s New York Salesroom._

“Mommy, can Sam come over? We’re gonna play with the puppies!”

Bela tucks Ruby’s hair behind her ears. “Of course he can, darling.”

Dean looks on in mildly disguised horror. Oh _hell_ no. “ _You’re_ Ruby’s mom?”  
  


\-----

  
While Dean calls the car rental company, Sam wanders over to the damaged end of the Impala. His curious little hand reaches out to investigate the jagged metal and Castiel rushes over to pull Sam’s hand back.

“Be careful, Sam,” Castiel cautions. “The metal looks sharp; we don’t want you getting tetanus.”

“What’s that?” Sam asks, looking up at his instructor inquisitively.

“It’s an infection.” Sam crosses his arms and tucks his hands safely away under his armpits.

“Is baby going to be okay?”

Castiel looks over at Dean, who’s running a hand through his hair and gesticulating irritably. “Is that the only car you have available? Come on, man,” he bemoans into his phone.

“It’ll be fine,” Castiel assures Sam.

Dean wanders over, pocketing his cell phone. “This is ridiculous,” he mumbles.

“Is the rental coming here? I can drive you two home.” Castiel offers.

Dean’s ears color. “Uh, actually, that would be nice. Thanks, Cas.

Sam giggles. “His name is Mr. Milton.” Dean rolls his eyes and ruffles Sam’s hair before going to pull the booster seat from his car.

“But his name _is_ Mister Milton,” Sam insists, “right, Mister Milton?”

Cas smiles fondly. “Of course,” and smoothes Sam’s hair back into place.  
  


\-----

  
“Pull over right here,” Dean points to a house in the middle of the street.

“Here?”

“The next house up.”

“That’s a nice house,” Castiel comments. It’s a large house, he means to say, especially for just two people.

“Yeah,” Dean nods. “Would you like to come in? Have a beer?” he offers. In the backseat Sam is already trying to pull at the fasteners keeping him in his booster seat.

“Dean, let’s go, I’m _hungry_.”

Castiel puts his car into park and lets it stall. “Perhaps another time.”

Dean resists the urge to lean over and kiss him. Instead he opens the door and announces loudly, “All right, all right, you monster,” unbuckling Sam and hefting his booster seat into his arms, “let’s get you something to eat.”

Dean closes the rear door with his hip and peeks in through the passenger window. “See ya later, Cas.”

Castiel sees Sam thump a fist against Dean’s leg as they walk to the door, “It’s Mister Milton!”

“Ow, okay, it’s Mr. Milton, Jesus.”

Castiel waits until the brothers are safely indoors before slowly pulling away from the curb.  
  


\-----

  
“So you want me to drive two hours to Lawrence just to tow your car from Sam’s school and drag its sorry ass _another_ two hours all the way back to Salina?”

“I wouldn’t trust anyone else with it.”

Bobby grunts, defeated. “Any other requests while I’m bending over backwards for you, Princess?”

“Come over for dinner. I’m making steak.”

“And broccoli!” Sam chimes in from the kitchen island, munching on a baby carrot dipped in ranch.

By the time Dean’s pulled the steaks out of the oven, Bobby’s old tow truck audibly rattles down the street. Sam runs into the kitchen from the den and announces excitedly, “Uncle Bobby’s here!” before scurrying off to the hallway to greet him. Bobby lets himself in and before he can take off his hat, Sam full-body slams into his legs and holds on tight. Bobby picks him up, albeit with effort.

“Either I’m getting old, or you’re getting big there, Sam.”

“I’m growing,” Sam replies and hugs Bobby tightly around the neck.

Dean pops his head into the hallway. “Wash up, dinner’s ready.”

The boys don’t need telling twice, spurred on by the wonderful smells coming from the kitchen and the insistent growls of their stomachs. By the time they’ve washed their hands, dinner is served in the dining room and Dean offers Bobby an open beer.

“Thanks for coming, Bobby.”

Sam pats at the seat next to him and Bobby sits. “If your daddy could see what you’ve done to that car -- nearly gave me a heart attack just looking at it.”

Dean takes a swig from his own beer. “You should have seen it happen. And the woman who hit me -- jesus! -- the most self-concerned, privileged, condescending--” He glances at Sam who has forgone his utensils and is eating his grilled fish with his bare hands. “... _woman_ I have ever met. She didn’t even care that she ruined a classic car. Told me to send her the bill and drove off in her precious Bentley.”

“Charming,” Bobby drolls. “Well from what I seen, the repairs ain’t gonna be cheap.”

Dean pulls Bela’s card out of his pocket and slides it over to Bobby. “By all means, send her the bill.”

Sam holds his plate out in front of him. “Dean, can I have more broccoli?”

Dean scoops another serving of steamed vegetables onto Sam’s plate and dinner continues, Sam’s usual chatter filling the space.

“At school today Mr. Milton played the piano. He sang _My Country Tiffany_ ,” Sam tells Bobby confidently.

“Pretty sure you mean _My Country, ‘Tis of Thee_ ,” Bobby replies, amused.

“‘S’what I said,” Sam confirms, and loudly hums the opening bars of the tune.

“And that’s another thing,” Dean says around the steak in his mouth, “She’s got the most ridiculous British accent I’ve ever heard, just thinking about it sets my blood to boil.” Time has yet to temper Dean’s anger. “You can tell she was born with a silver spoon in her mouth,” he grumbles, stabbing at his mashed potatoes.

Sam picks up his fork and stabs at his plate, too

Bobby lifts an eyebrow. “Are you sure this is pure animosity between you two?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean snarls.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sam mimics.

Dean frowns at Sam. “Don’t say that.” Sam ignores him and sticks another floret of broccoli in his mouth.

Bobby continues his thought. “She seems to have you pretty worked up.”

“What? Absolutely not.” Bobby looks on, unconvinced. “No, seriously. If I ever see her again, it’ll be too soon.” Dean wipes a smear of mashed potato off Sam’s cheek. “Besides--” he cuts himself off, realizing with a start he was about to mention Cas to Bobby. The impulse surprises Dean, he’s known Cas for all of two weeks. They’ve been on one date. It’s not even serious. No, best not to mention Cas at all. It’s a miracle Ellen and Jo haven’t ratted him out yet.

“Besides?” Bobby prompts.

“She has show dogs,” Dean says, finally, “ _Show dogs_.”

Sam brightens at the mention of Bela’s dogs. “And I’m going to play with them!

Dean scoffs, but doesn’t say anything.  
  


\-----

  
Excitement builds throughout the week as Friday’s field trip to South Park approaches. Castiel has the children review their shapes and colors, propping up different kinds of color spectrums and charts listing basic and more obscure geometric shapes.

If all goes as planned, Castiel will randomly divide the students into three groups of five for their scavenger hunt, all differentiated by colored visors. The groups will all look for different shapes and colors in nature, a list that Castiel is still putting together.

Sam, particularly, works on his assignments with an almost religious fervor, determined to not only complete his work but finish it first. Castiel is delighted with Sam’s work ethic, and by the end of Tuesday, the rest of the students are following Sam’s lead. By Wednesday, all the students are in friendly competition with each other; Jessica finishes her journal entry first, but is beat out by Adam on their math worksheets.

On Thursday morning, Sam trudges into the classroom, face so defeated Castiel would not be surprised if he suddenly burst into tears. He pulls a few sheets from the tissue box and folds them into his pocket, making his way to Sam’s desk while the students hang up their jackets in the coat closet.

“Good morning, Sam,” Castiel greets, squatting down to Sam’s level.

“G’morning, Mister Milton,” Sam murmurs.

“Is something wrong? You look sad,” Castiel prompts, tone empathic.

Sam’s face crumples, fat tears pooling in his eyes. “I don’t get to play with pu-puppies!” he hiccups, starting to cry.

Castiel pulls the tissues from his pocket and hands them to Sam. “There, there, it’s okay,” he soothes. “Come on, let’s go outside for a second.” He turns to Kevin. “Start the students on the hot potato exercise; vocabulary, if you can. The lesson plan is on my desk if you need it.”

Castiel takes Sam by the hand and leads him outside, walking them to the bench just within view of the classroom door. Sam continues to cry his way through the four tissues Castiel had given him, and when the tissues are more wet than dry, Sam turns and wipes his face on the sleeve of Castiel’s sweater.

“Do you want to talk about what’s wrong?” Castiel asks once Sam’s crying has petered down to soft hiccups.

Sam shrugs a shoulder, but speaks anyway. “Dean said I can’t go to Ruby’s anymore.” Tears well up in his eyes again and Sam blinks them away furiously.

Castiel nods. “I see. Did he say why?”

“No,” Sam mumbles, trying to uncrumple the tissues in his hands.

Castiel plucks the tissues away and tosses them into the garbage bin next to the bench.

“I’m sorry your playdate was canceled, Sam.” Sam’s lip quivers alarmingly. “Hey, hey. It’s okay. Hear me out.” Sam nods and takes a shuddering breath. “I wish I could change that for you, but I can’t. Sometimes people do or say things we don’t like. And a lot of times they don’t tell us why they do or say what they do. But that doesn’t mean they do it to hurt us. I know for a fact Dean loves you very, very much.”

Sam has his hands bunched in his hoodie, gaze resolutely glued to the ground.

“Sam?” Sam hesitantly looks up. “It’s going to be okay. I know you’re disappointed. It’s okay to feel that way.”

Sam sniffles and swings his legs, kicking a dandelion and sending its seeds into the breeze. Castiel and Sam sit in silence for a few minutes.

Sam pauses his swinging.

“Mr. Milton, do you have any pets?”

“I have a cat,” he replies honestly. “His name is Lucy.”

Sam frowns. “Dean would never let me have a cat. Or a do-o-og,” and he’s off again.

Unlike before, Sam refuses to be consoled, choosing instead to pull his legs up and cry into his knees while Castiel dials the main office from his cell phone.

“Good morning! This is--”

“Missouri,” he interrupts, “I need you to call the Winchester home, please. Tell Mr. Winchester that Sam needs to go home and get some rest.”

“Oh dear,” Missouri tuts before doing as asked.  
  


\-----

  
Dean ends his class early and cancels his office hours before hightailing it to the school. By the time he arrives, the students are outside having recess. Dean has 50 minutes left before his next class starts and 65 before it’s canceled by default. He rushes through the main office, receiving a simultaneously sympathetic and angry look from the secretary, and briskly makes his way across the schoolyard. When he enters the classroom, Sam’s sleeping form greets him from the reading area, curled up on a bean bag chair. His eyes are puffy from crying. Dean suspects he knows why.

Dean glances around the room and finds Cas at his desk with a deadly glint in his eye. They stare at each other for several tense moments before Cas stands, seemingly calmer than the look in his eyes suggests.

“Cas,” Dean says weakly. Castiel’s gaze hardens, and it simultaneously wants to send Dean running or make him fall on his knees and blow him

“It’s Mr. Milton until everything’s straightened out. Have a seat.” Dean scrambles over and sits in the uncomfortable wooden chair on the opposite side of the desk.

“This is about the playdate, isn’t it,” Dean cuts to the point without preamble.

“It’s about a lot more than a playdate, Dean--”

“Mr. Winchester,” Dean butts in, feeling brave.

Castiel’s eyes narrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“Well if I have to call you Mr. Milton...” Dean trails off, false bravado quickly evaporating under the heat of Castiel’s scrutiny.

“Dean, this is about you not allowing Sam to develop his social skills. You’re discouraging him from exploring his fascination with the world and its animal inhabitants. You’re fostering resentment by denying him a playdate without a valid reason,” Castiel watches as Dean ducks his head down in a semblance of shame. “And you made him cry for over an hour. What do you think that says about his emotional state?”

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. “I understand that he’s upset--”

“He’s more than upset; he’s devastated.”

“I understand he’s devastated. Trust me, we went over this last night. But I can’t bend to his will because he decides to have a fit at school.”

“Normally I would agree, but I fail to understand the benefit of punishing Sam because of a personal vendetta you have against Ms. Talbot.”

“It’s not a vendetta,” Dean protests.

“Had she not rear-ended your car, Sam would still have his playdate, whether you agreed with her personality of not.” Castiel whispers heatedly.

“Okay, fine,” Dean throws up his arms as he stands up to pace, “it’s personal. How could it not be? She ruins my car, I’m driving around in a _Jeep Liberty_ for Christ’s sake, and doesn’t even have the decency to apologize.”

“Dean I’m truly sorry about your car--”

“This is not just about the car, man. It’s about _people like her_.”

Castiel furrows his eyebrows, not quite understanding. “Like her?”

Dean rolls his eyes and explains. “Rich people, Cas. Rude, condescending, rich people walking around on their inflated sense of friggin entitlement. People who have never worked a day in their lives, who don’t know what it’s like to hurt for money, who think it’s okay to treat people like crap because they can afford to treat people like crap,” he spits.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit of an exaggeration?” Castiel snaps, the venom in his voice surprising even himself. Castiel is standing now as they attempt to tower over each other.

Dean huffs a bitter laugh and leans in close. “Yeah right. Come on, Cas, who are you trying to kid? People like her are all the same: big spoiled babies with trust funds.”

They each suddenly find themselves with an armful of the other, mouths sealed tightly together in a bruising kiss. Castiel viciously tugs at the small hairs on the back of Dean’s head and pulls a groan from Dean’s throat. Dean presses his fingertips into the flesh around Castiel’s waist, leaving if not small bruises, then tiny red marks that will take minutes to fade.

Castiel unclenches his hands and moves them to Dean’s shoulders to shove him away. Dean stumbles back a few steps, arms hanging uselessly at his sides.

“Cas, damage is done. What do you want me to do about it?”

“You can still let Sam have his playdate.”

“No. Let me bottom line it for you: I don’t trust that woman behind the wheel and I sure as hell don’t trust her with Sam.”

Cas takes in a steadying breath. “You need to take Sam home. He’s tired and needs as unstimulating an environment as possible.” He pulls his sweater down and smoothes the sides. “Try to think about his playdate as interaction with Ruby, not as exposure to Ms. Talbot. Reconsider, please.”

Sam shifts as Dean scoops him up gently, nestling his face in the crook of Dean’s neck. Just like that, Dean can feel his resolve begin to soften. “I’ll think about it,” he promises. He moves to the door and pauses over the threshold of the room. “We still on for Friday?”

Something curls uncomfortably under Castiel’s lungs, anger still rippling through his veins.

“I’ll think about it.”

Disappointment floods Dean’s face before he nods briskly. “Okay,” he says, and walks away.  
  


\-----

  
The field trip goes without a hitch.

The children chatter loudly on the school bus that morning, excited for their first ever field trip. The windy weather lends perfectly to their planned activities; scattered leaves litter the park as his students run around in teams to collect items on their scavenger hunt. Kevin does his best to monitor fifteen scavenging 4-year olds while Castiel approves of his students’ finds and keeps score.

Jess and Ruby rifle through leaves looking for a pine cone, while Ed and Harry try to catch a flying insect.

Adam secures his team’s win by accident, tripping over a pine cone and handing it to Castiel while a ladybug clings to his bangs.

Castiel carefully plucks the red beetle out of his hair and calls the class to gather around him. He kneels down and reveals his right palm, the ladybug snug in the center of his hand.

“Who can tell me what this is?”

Hands shoot into the air, but it's little Madison who speaks up. “It’s pretty.”

“Yes, it’s a very pretty ladybug. Would you like to hold it?” Madison hides her hands behind her back and shakes her head furiously.

“Why are they called ladybugs?” Ben asks.

“Because they’re girls!” Sam answers.

The lady bug crawls to the tip of Castiel’s middle finger before opening its wings and flying off. “Actually, Sam, ladybugs can be boys, too.” This news causes his students to chatter in amusement, the giggles extending even into lunchtime.

Kevin spreads blankets out onto the grass while Castiel hands out labeled lunches, having taken great care to provide meals that cater to students with specific dietary needs. Sam chats with Amy over sandwiches, the leaves they collected earlier that morning spread out next to them. Sam is his usual, cheerful self, nothing like the crying mess he’d been just the day before. Either Sam had gotten over his disappointment or Dean had changed his mind on the matter after all.

Dean. The mere thought of the older Winchester causes Castiel’s gut to twist uncomfortably as Dean’s words echo in his head. Logically, he knows Dean’s anger is not directed toward him, rather toward Ms. Talbot. Still, Castiel had turned defensive. Dean, of course, knows nothing about his past, he couldn’t possibly -- and yet it begged the question: what would Dean think were he to learn about Castiel’s family? Would he still see 'Cas,' or would he see The Miltons, just one more well-off family from upper state New York?

Castiel has his own reservations and criticisms. It was these very thoughts that led to his estrangement from the majority of his family. But would that mean anything to Dean?

The whole matter doesn’t sit well with him. It’s best, perhaps, he keep his distance until he can settle on a course of action.  
  


\-----

  
Dean waves to Sam, watching as Bela lifts him into her Bentley after securing Ruby in her own seat. The chauffeur waits patiently for everyone to be seated and buckled in before pulling away from the curb. Several parents, nannies, and babysitters mill about the entrance of the school, socializing as their charges play together in their post-field trip rush. Castiel excuses himself from a conversation and makes his way to where Dean is leaning against his rental, away from the chatter.

“I take it Sam is going on his playdate after all.”

Dean pushes off the car and scuffs a boot against the asphalt. “Yeah, well,” he begins. “I thought about what you said. Sam slept for a long time after I took him home, but he still looked sad. I couldn’t do that to him. So I, uh, I called Bela. Wasn’t happy to have to speak with her; she wasn’t too happy either, but you know, we do our best for the kids.” Dean sighs and runs a hand over his face. “Told Sam over lunch yesterday, got so happy he almost cried,” he laughs.

“I’m glad,” Castiel says. “He seemed very different from yesterday. I had a feeling things worked out.”

“I told you I’d think about it,” Dean smiles charmingly, but his flirty demeanor quickly fades and he nervously sticks his hands in his jeans pockets. “Have you thought about tonight? I mean, are we...” he trails off, pulling one hand out to circle it in the air slowly. “...still on?”

“I _have_ given it thought,” Castiel confirms.

“I feel a ‘but’ coming,” Dean’s nervously jokes.

“--And I think that we should wait a little longer before our next outing.”

Dean smiles ruefully at the ground and nods. “Fair enough.”

“Dean,” Cas amends quickly, “I am still very much interested in going out with you again.”

“It’s fine, Cas,” Dean says, smile tight and brittle. “You have my number; call me when you feel like it.”

“Dean,” Cas calls out, but Dean is headed to the driver’s side of his rental Jeep, starting the ignition and pulling away from the curb.  
  


\-----

  
Dean wakes up Saturday morning to the rattle of his cell phone vibrating noisily on the bedside table. He feels for his phone blindly, swiping at the screen and taking the call.

"What," he grumbles into the receiver.

"I need some extra cash," Jo begins without preamble. "My laptop broke and I need it replaced _pronto_. Can I babysit Sam?"

Dean slowly pushes himself into a sitting position. He catches his reflection in the mirror across the room. His hair lays flat on one side, the rest of his hair askew and wild. Time for a haircut. Jo makes an impatient sound over the phone, drawing Dean’s attention back to the matter at hand.

"You woke me up because you can't take care of your electronics? Seriously? Just have Ash fix it up for you."

"I'm asking for money, not advice," Jo sighs, exasperated. "Can I watch Sam or not? Come on, go on a date with that cute boy from the other night."

"He's not a boy," Dean argues, swallowing the surge of disappointment at the thought of Castiel cancelling their date. "He's actually older than me."

"Great, so have him take you out instead. Come on, Dean, I really need the money!" She wheedles.

"Well I do have some errands I can run--"

"Great I'm coming over." She hangs up with a click.

Fifteen minutes later Dean opens the door to a slightly out of breath Jo, hefting a large backpack on one shoulder. Dean ushers her inside and takes her bag like a gentleman.

"You know Jo, I can just give you the money--"

"No, working for it is much better. Now where is the little monster?"

“Eating breakfast.”  
  


\-----

  
A little over an hour later, Dean finds himself at the local bookstore in the children’s section. He has a few of his own childhood favorites in his shopping basket, but they’re not quite nearly enough to last. Sam will want at least two stories read to him every night, especially since they’re so short compared to their usual reading material. _The Very Hungry Caterpillar_ stares at him from the top of the pile.

A blue book catches his attention. He pulls it out from behind another book and glances at the familiar cover of a small boy making a mess of the bathroom.

 

_Dean twists in his mother’s lap to look up at her. “Mama I’m too old for that book.”_

_“Trust me, baby, you’ll never be too old for this one. Now settle down and listen.” She kisses the top of his head before opening the thin book to the first page._

_“A mother held her new baby and_   
_very slowly rocked him back and forth,_   
_back and forth, back and forth._   
_And while she held him, she sang:_   
_I’ll love you forever,_   
_I’ll like you for always,_   
_As long as I’m living_   
_my baby you’ll be.”_

 

Dean clears his throat and sets the book back on the shelf with a shaky hand. He’s feeling overwhelmed suddenly, the memory making him feel vulnerable and raw. He leaves the pile in the basket by his feet and leaves the store for a breath of fresh air, rubbing his face with his hands. He thought he was over this; it’s been four years.

He’s leaning against the brick façade of the bookstore when he spots him: Castiel walking across the street, struggling with two heavy grocery bags. The strap of one bag hangs loose, the end frayed where it unstitched. Dean smiles fondly. Of course he uses reusable bags, drives a Prius, teaches children the merits of recycling.

Without a second thought he jogs across the street and manages to catch the ripped grocery bag as it slips through Castiel’s arm.

“Thank you,” Castiel huffs and looks up with grateful blue eyes.

“My pleasure,” Dean smiles as Castiel fumbles with his remaining bag. “Can I help you to your car?”

Castiel nods and leads them halfway down the street before popping open the trunk to his car. “Lucky I bumped into you,” he laughs nervously.

“I was going to the say the same thing about you,” Dean says seriously, crowding in close.

“Dean,” Castiel says weakly.

“Look, I messed up. I did something or I said something, hell, I probably did both. But all I know is that I was across the street trying to buy Sam books and freaking out because I’m really in over my head and suddenly there you were across the street and--” Dean takes a big breath, “and I thought, ‘There’s someone I can help, and maybe, maybe, he can help me.’”

Castiel doesn’t say a word, just stares at Dean in silent wonder.

“Uh, so I guess what I’m trying to say,” Dean says awkwardly, “Can we start over?”

Castiel seems to reach a decision because in the next second he is resolutely taking his bag from Dean’s arms to set it next to the first. He turns to face Dean again and extends his hand.

“I’m Castiel Milton," he says simply, "Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Dean takes his hand in a firm handshake and smiles. “Dean Winchester. The pleasure is all mine.”


	4. Dean Winchester vs. The World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October’s here, midterms are around the corner, and Dean has a bad case of the “blues.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ve taken all your feedback and constructive criticism to heart. We’ve made a very minor edit to the previous part -- Bela does not drive Sam and Ruby home, her chauffeur does, but she does load the kids into her car. Any disagreements with the characters and their actions/arguments/decisions is okay in our book. We really appreciate your feedback -- we want to write a good story!

A chilly October morning finds the Winchester brothers in the kitchen having pancakes for breakfast. While Dean pours the batter onto the hot griddle, Sam enjoys a bowl of fresh fruit and the first pancakes of the batch.

Sam waves his empty bowl in the air. “More apples, Dean!”

“What do we say?”

“Please,” Sam says automatically, then returns to his millionth retelling of his playdate with Ruby. “And Dean the puppies were so soft and their tongues were wet and they tickled because they gave me a lot of kisses. Ruby says they give you kisses when they like you and they liked me a lot. And when you came to pick me up they cried like this--” He whines high in his throat, imitating the dogs, “and my heart felt like this--” Sam pulls his arms and legs close to his chest in a perfect imitation of a clenching heart before popping back to his full seated height on the kitchen stool.

“Really,” Dean replies, navigating around the kitchen and dropping a handful of apple slices into Sam’s bowl.

“Yeah,” Sam confirms. “But Ruby’s mama told me I could come back whenever I wanted. Ruby’s mama was so nice, she told the cook, she said, ‘Cook, make him a veggie lasagna.’ How did she know I like that?” He throws out his arms in disbelief, his right hand gripping his fork tightly while syrup drips off the end and onto his sleeve. “And I ate it and the puppies ate some too because they have these big eyes and they look at you like this--”

Dean flips the last few pancakes on top of their communal stack and takes a seat next to Sam at the kitchen island.

“Dean you’re not looking!”

“I’m looking, I’m looking.”

Sam has told his story so many times Dean knows exactly when to nod and look impressed. Sam continues to gesticulate wildly with his fork, managing to fling half-chewed bits of pancake onto Dean’s clean shirt. He’s glad Sam is happy; his happiness is all Dean needs to know he made the right decision about the playdate. He’d felt a little bullied into it by an irritated, _hot_ , and defensive teacher, an exchange that in Dean’s mind still feels off. Dean’s thoughts keep probing at the memory of their heated  _discussion_ \-- Dean refuses to call it a _fight_ \-- incessantly, like a tongue poking at a loose tooth.

Other than that mishap, things with Cas are good, great even. They’ve managed to go on several dates since their chance encounter outside the bookstore -- but to his dismay, they’d never get very far. Dean is beginning to realize why married people with children never get laid again, and he’s at the point where he can wax poetic about his sexual frustration.

He continues to think about the sorry state of his sex life even after dropping Sam off at school and heading to work. He pauses with the key in the lock to his office as his eyes fall on the office hours sign-up sheet he pinned to a small corkboard on his door. Every slot is filled, with one brave student jotting her name down under the last slot with an underlined and bolded PLEASE.

Dean enters his classroom ten minutes later and throws his bag onto his desk with a loud thump. His students jump in their seats and all side conversations cease immediately. One brave, possibly stupid, soul raises his hand with trepidation.

“Uh, professor?”

“What,” Dean grunts.

The student winces. “We were just wondering, um, about our midterm? We wanted to know what to expect...?”

Dean sighs and purses his lips. “Well, I was thinking of giving a short-answer midterm, three to five questions,” he says, surveying the room, when his eyes fall on a student wearing a hoodie the same shade as Cas’s eyes.

 _And the same color as your balls_ , his brain helpfully supplies in a voice that sounds vaguely like Jo.

“But you know what, I changed my mind and the midterm is a ten-page comparative paper--” the class yelps in protest, “--on any two texts we’ve read in class plus a text of your choice.”

His class mumbles, resigned to their fate. Two boys look close to tears. The boy on the right is wearing a _Team Edward_ t-shirt. Oh hell no.

"Any and all references to Twilight will give you an automatic F." The class groans. "Yeah life is hard. I don't want to hear it."

Class goes on as usual, and if someone whispers behind his back that he needs to get laid, he makes no show of having heard it.  
  


\-----

  
Halfway through the week and another day with back-to-back office hours, Dean finds a chance to eat his lunch. He bites into his sandwich, peanut butter no jelly because he ran late this morning, and wipes the crumbs off his desk. He’s expecting one more student before he can finally call it a day.

A smear of peanut butter finds its way onto his cheek when there’s a knock at the door. He swallows the half-chewed chunk of sandwich and coughs out a “Come in!”

The university’s resident writer shuffles in, looking every bit the disheveled novelist.

“Hey, Chuck.” Dean gestures at the chair on the other side of the desk, but Chuck nervously declines.

“Hey, Dean,” he greets. “Got a minute?”

Dean places his sandwich on a napkin. “Uh, sure. What’s up?”

“I was wondering if you could give my manuscript a once over?” The manuscript in question is being bent and twisted in Chuck’s hands, the edges curled with the moisture of sweaty palms. “I’m having difficulty with the writing and I need someone’s opinion. Someone besides Crowley, that is,” he says, handing the manuscript over to Dean’s outstretched hand.

Dean laughs, short and loud, at the image of the Head of the English department sneering at Chuck’s work. “I can’t imagine what he thought of it.”

“He said I have no sense of poetry.” Chuck ruffles his hair agitatedly. “But I’m not _writing_ poetry?”

“Pretty sure that’s not what he meant, Chuck.” Dean flips through the manuscript idly, pausing to read a paragraph before closing the pages and nodding. “But yeah, I’ll read it.”

“You will?” Chuck squeaks, then composes himself. “Thanks, I really owe you one.”

“I’ll be honest though, I probably won’t get around to reading this for a while.”

“Take your time. I need a break, the whole thing’s been giving me migraines like you wouldn’t believe.” With a sigh of relief, Chuck allows himself to sink into the chair opposite Dean, the picture of boneless relaxation. “So how are midterms treating you?”

Dean groans. “I’m going to have to read thirty 10-page comparative papers because apparently I’m a masochist as well as a sadist.”

“Yikes, really shooting yourself in the foot there.” Chuck spots a framed picture of a little baby barely taking his first steps. “How’s Sam?”

“He started kindergarten last month,” Dean states simply, but the undercurrent of pride rings loud and clear.

“Next thing you know he’ll be another student in your class,” Chuck jokes.

Dean bristles at the thought. The horror must show on his face because Chuck throws his head back and laughs.

“You can’t stop Sam from growing up, Dean. It’s not like Pokemon where you love your pet so much you never let it evolve.” Dean scowls. Chuck ploughs on. “They do that in the real world, you know? We love baby cows so much we stick them in crates so they can’t grow and then we call them veal.”

“Except Sam is not on the _menu du jour_ , asshat.” Dean angles the picture frame to face him. “I just want him to take his time growing up, is all.”

A persistent knock on the door breaks the moment.

“Oh man, you still have office hours! Shoot, I’ll get out of your hair.” Chuck stands to open the door and a flurry of wild blonde hair enters as he slips out of the office. “See you later, Dean!”

Dean nods as he polishes off the rest of his sandwich in one disgusting bite, manners be damned.

“Thanks for seeing me, Professor. I know you’re technically off the clock now so I’ll be quick. I just have some ideas for this paper I want to run by you-- oh, you have some peanut butter right there on your cheek.”

Dean lifts a hand to investigate. His fingers come away sticky. “Son of a-- Thanks, Becky.”  
  


\-----

  
On his way to pick up Sam from school, Dean gets a phone call from Bobby. The Impala’s repairs are nearly done and she’ll be up and running by Friday afternoon. It’s the best news he’s had all week.

“So how about you and Sam come over for the weekend?” Bobby suggests.

Dean runs the option by Sam on the ride home, who gets so excited by their weekend plans that the second the front door swings open Sam rushes to his room to begin packing.

“No running,” Dean reminds with a sigh, but Sam’s already tumbling into his room. A thump follows shortly after.

“I’m okay!” Sam reports, pushing himself upright and pulling his small duffel from his closet.

He zips open the bag and places it on the floor in the middle of the room. He needs to pack the essentials. He pulls a few of Mr. Milton’s books off the shelf and puts them in his duffel bag first. Next he grabs a tin of green army men. They need enemies to fight against so he throws in his collection of plastic dinosaurs Aunt Jody gave him for Christmas. And in case the dinosaurs get hungry he throws in the rubber food from the mini kitchen Dean bought him when Sam wanted to run his own restaurant just like Aunt Ellen.

He’s zipping up the bag when he spots the box of legos under his bed.  
  


\-----

  
Multiple thumps make their way down the stairs and Dean glances wearily down the hall. “Sam?”

Sam’s voice filters up from the first floor. “I can’t lift it.”

“What do you mean you can’t--” Dean stops short at the sight of Sam pushing his bag down the stairs. He picks up Sam with one arm and stoops to pick up the abused bag sitting innocently at the bottom of the staircase.

The bag is heavier than anticipated and fit to bursting. “Mind if I check your bag?”

“I packed just like you taught me.” Sam puffs his chest proudly.

Dean tugs on the zip and it flies open. A few toy cars tumble out of the bag and fall with a clatter on the floor. The duffel is stuffed with a sample of nearly all of Sam’s toys. A condensed battalion of army men, only the carnivorous dinosaurs, and oddly enough, just the vegetables from Sam’s kitchenette. A few of Cas’s books peek up from the bottom of the bag. Dean is almost not surprised by the fact that there is not a single article of clothing in sight.

“Do you really need to take all your dinosaurs?”

“Not all of them,” Sam protests. “I left three on my bed.”

Dean goes for a different tactic. “What are the rules for packing?”

“‘Pack only what you need’,” Sam recites by heart. “Dean I need them!”  
  


\-----

  
Castiel sits on a chair at the front of the classroom, his enlarged copy of _Stuck_ propped open on his lap. The students sit in two staggered rows forming semi-circles around him. The absurdity of the protagonist's actions has the entire class in stitches; even Kevin, who is preparing materials for quiet time, finds himself laughing alongside the four-year olds.

“Now wasn’t Floyd so silly?” Castiel asks. The students giggle in agreement. “What would _you_ do if your kite were stuck in a tree?”

“I’d ask my mommy to get it down,” Ben volunteers.

“I’d ask Dean,” Sam pipes in.

“Why not ask your mommy?” Ed asks, peering at Sam from behind his thick glasses.

“I don’t have a mommy,” Sam blinks. “I have a Dean.”

Castiel is quick to redirect the conversation from potentially dangerous and triggering questions, then leads the students into quiet time. He makes a mental note to dedicate a class lesson or two on Diverse Families. It’s an important dialogue to introduce, especially before Mother’s Day and Father’s Day roll around.

The students separate themselves into two groups for quiet time. Castiel dims the lights and plays classical music softly in the background for the students who like to nap. For the students who stay awake, he encourages them to write or draw quietly. Kevin distributes sheets of paper and crayons.

The day ends on a musical note, Castiel leading the kids through a round robin of “Frère Jacques.” When the school bell rings announcing the end of the day, the students walk (“Calmly,” Castiel reminds) to the coat closet to collect their effects. The students filter out of the classroom onto the schoolyard to play while they wait to be picked up.

Castiel picks up a discarded sweater and peers inside the material for a name tag. _Harry_ , it reads. Castiel clicks his tongue and hangs it back in the coat closet to be collected tomorrow.

The blocky calendar in the corner counts down the days to their next field trip to a pumpkin patch. He wonders if he knows any songs about Halloween, and vaguely recalls Five Little Pumpkins. The nursery rhyme has no accompanying music, but perhaps he can just make up a melody, he decides, and sits back down at the piano to pluck out a tune.

He begins by playfully tinkering at the keyed instrument, memories of a younger version of himself laboring away on the piano bench with Michael’s gentle coaching in his ear. A particular chord progression reminds him of an old favorite of his, and before he knows it Castiel is halfway through Chopin’s Etude Op. 10 No. 3.

“Sam mentioned you play the piano,” Dean says suddenly from over his shoulder, and Castiel hastily closes the lid over the keys with a snap. “But I didn’t realize you _play the piano_.”

“Just a little,” Castiel says humbly.

“Don’t be modest,” Dean coaxes, pulling up a chair and propping up the lid. “Come on, play me something, Amadeus.”

“Do you like Chopin?” Castiel begins to play a piece that sounds vaguely familiar to Dean before stopping. “I much prefer the cello,” he admits.

“The cello,” Dean repeats, filing the information away. Castiel turns on the piano bench to face him.

“Hello, Dean.”

There’s entirely too much space between them, Dean decides, and leans in to bridge the gap with a kiss.

“Hey,” Dean grins prettily at him. Castiel’s stomach flutters in response.

“Are we still on for this weekend?”

“Actually,” Dean’s tone is apologetic, “raincheck? I’m going up to Salina this weekend; I’m getting my baby back.”

“Just when I was getting used to you in that sexy Jeep,” Castiel pouts, placing a hand on Dean’s knee.

“Jeep Libertys are not sexy,” Dean makes a face, not noticing the hand slowly creeping up his thigh, “they’re _mom cars_.”

“I read on a culture blog that they are very popular with lesbians,” Castiel reports with a straight face.

“That’s it, I’m leaving.” Dean gets up and makes to leave but Castiel snags his sleeve.

“I’m kidding,” Castiel laughs, pushing himself off the bench. “Well, no I really did read that, but-- travel safely,” he tells Dean seriously, petting the side of his face fondly and kissing him again.

Dean rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “I’m guaranteed to get there safely, I’ve just been blessed by an angel.”

Castiel sputters, choking on the sheer amount of _cheese_ , before Dean’s grin turns into a leer. “If only I could be touched by one, too.”

“When you find out what that feels like, you let me know,” Castiel deadpans as he nudges Dean out the door.

“You’ll know when I know,” Dean promises with a growl, but still finds himself outside the classroom without even a kiss goodbye. Tease. “You’ll be the end of me,” he mutters while a smile threatens to split his face. He goes to collect Sam with a spring in his step.  
  


\-----

  
“Okay, so what happens tomorrow?” Dean asks as he pulls the blanket up to Sam’s chin.

“I go to school!”

“That’s right. Then I’m gonna pick you up, we’ll have lunch, and then we’ll go to Bobby’s.” Sam titters excitedly. “But we can’t go if you don’t go to sleep.”

Sam stills, snuggling himself deeper into his thick comforter. “Okay. Story?”

“Alright,” Dean smiles, sitting on the edge of Sam’s bed. He reaches for his new favorite book and turns to the first page. “If you give a mouse a cookie,” he begins, watching as Sam listens attentively, “he’s probably going to ask for a glass of milk...”  
  


\-----

  
Dean pulls off the I-70 sometime around six and pulls up to Bobby and Jody’s front door ten minutes later. They must hear the crunch of gravel as Dean pulls into the driveway because Jody has the door open before Sam’s even out of his booster seat.

“Aunt Jody!” Sam squeals before attaching himself to her leg. He looks up at her adoringly and squeezes her leg tight. “I brought you and Uncle Bobby a present.”

“Save it for after dessert. Go wash up, I made your favorite: macaroni and cheese.” Sam gasps and disappears inside. They both hear the moment he runs into Bobby. “ _Uncle Bobby!_ ”

“Hey, Sheriff,” Dean greets.

“Oh come’re, you,” she says fondly, standing on her toes and pulling Dean in for a hug. “You go wash up, too. Here, give me your bags.”

“No, I got them.”

“Then you know where to put them.” She closes the door behind Dean, nudging at a corner of the entrance mat to lie flat again. Dean can already smell the delicious aromas coming from the kitchen. His stomach growls loudly.

“Nothing like a home cooked meal, huh?” Jody laughs.

Dinner is a raucous affair, made more lively by the generous portions of food and the delicious beer Bobby brews in the basement. Sam loses his fork mid-meal and eats his food with his hands. Dean frowns and looks ready to scold, but Bobby chides, “You ain’t the king of manners yourself, just let the boy eat.”

The flank steak is tender and amazing, and Dean helps himself to two servings. Sam looks on, intrigued, but shakes his head emphatically when Bobby offers him a bite. Jody gets up to refresh everyone’s drinks and returns with a can of sparkling cranberry juice for Sam. She pulls back the tab with a pop and a fizz and places a drinking straw in the can.

“Sippy!” Sam demands with huge puppy eyes.

“Sorry, sweetie, you’re a big boy now. Big boys drink from straws.” Jody is gentle, but her tone brooks no argument.

Sam pouts, but his lips close obediently around the straw and he reluctantly takes a drink.

Just as Dean announces he can’t eat another bite, Jody excuses herself to pull a cherry pie out of the oven.

“I take that back,” Dean amends quickly, sitting up from his slumped position on his chair.

“I’ll be right back,” Sam says as he climbs down from his chair and runs up the stairs.

Bobby takes this opportunity to talk shop. “Your car’s ready and fully paid for,” he reports. “She runs like a dream.”

“Awesome,” Dean replies and tilts his beer in salute.

Sam comes back waving a manila folder and holds it out to Jody before climbing onto Bobby’s lap.

“Now what are these?” Jody asks, opening the folder. “Oh my go-- Robert, look at this.” Bobby leans over and pulls his glasses out of his breast pocket.

“I painted them!”

“Good to know you’ve been reading that book I gave ya,” Bobby nods approvingly.

“Look at this shapeshifter,” Jody exclaims.

“Nah, that’s a skinwalker,” Bobby corrects, “look at the coyote mouth starting to form.”

Sam points impatiently at the next painting. “Look at the vampires!”

“They have more teeth than that,” Bobby critiques.

“I ran out of room,” Sam admits.

Jody shuffles through the paintings adoringly. “Which is your favorite, Dean?” she asks.

“The wendigo,” he smiles. “It’s back at the house, on the fridge.”  
  


\------

  
The next day Sam follows Jody around the house like a faithful duckling while Dean and Bobby go over paperwork for the Impala’s repairs. Bobby reviews the list of damage repaired and his eyes narrow in suspicion as Dean nods along, completely unfazed. In fact, Dean’s been downright _chipper_ the entire weekend. Not that he’s not allowed to be in a good mood, but considering Dean’s anger the last time he’d been around, the complete turnaround in his attitude sets off Bobby’s alarms. He sets aside his questions for the time being.

After lunch, the rag-tag family wanders out to the porch to soak up some sun. It’s early afternoon, just past one, and the sun is still high over Salina.

Jody sits long-ways on the porch swing, and Sam hops on and settles between the vee of her legs, his back to her chest. They sway slightly in the breeze, nearly rocking in time with the rocking chairs where Bobby and Dean have settled. It’s quiet, and warm, and Sam nearly nods off several times.

Dean’s phone chirps obnoxiously and he scrambles to pull it out of his pocket. A grin appears on his face when he looks at the screen, and after furiously typing out a response to the text, he slips the phone back in his pocket. He takes a sip from his beer in an attempt to hide his smile.

Bobby breaks.

“Well you’re not gonna just come out and say it, so let’s hear it. What crawled up your ass and found your prostate?”

“Robert!” Jody hisses, covering Sam’s ears.

“Robert!” Sam repeats, sleepily.

Dean gapes and struggles to answer.

“I know all the signs,” Bobby ploughs on, “so no use trying to pull the wool over my eyes. I may be old, but I’m not blind. So who is it?”

“I, uh, that was,” Dean babbles nervously as he attempts to deny the accusation.

“We already know,” Jody says kindly, “Ellen called a few days ago and Robert’s just been dying to grill you.”

“I’m an old man. Gossip keeps me young.”

“It’s nothing serious--” Dean starts, eyes darting over at Sam meaningfully and then back at Bobby and Jody.

Jody maneuvers her legs over the edge of the swing and picks Sam up in her arms. “I’m going to put this one to bed. I’ll be back in a bit.” Sam mumbles into her shoulder as they make their way inside.

For a few tense moments, Dean stares at his beer and wonders if there’s a way he could crawl inside the bottle and never emerge. The creaking of the rocking chairs sounds louder than before. Everything is just _looking_ at him.

Jody exits the house and closes the door softly. “He’ll be out for an hour, at most. He just needs some down time.” She sits back on the swing and waits patiently for Dean to speak.

“I haven’t told Sam that I’m kind of dating someone yet,” he rushes out in one large breath.

“Why? Because he’s a man?” Jody says gently.

“Does this have anything to do with John?” Bobby asks knowingly. “He was a Marine but your daddy was a good man.”

“You guys are surprisingly very PFLAG about all this,” Dean stalls.

“We try,” Jody smiles, and nods encouragingly for Dean to continue.

“The whole thing’s a little complicated.” He imagines the soft smile of his mother’s face, the accepting look his father might have given him. If Mary and John were still alive, he has no doubt they would have given him the same treatment. It makes his heart twinge, the dull ache of their passing a constant reminder of his loss.

“Cas is a teacher.”

“Is he a teacher at Sam’s school?” Jody prompts.

Dean laughs nervously. “He _is_ Sam’s teacher.”  
  


\-----

  
When it’s time to leave, Jody pulls Dean aside.

“Bring your boy around, we’d love to meet him.” Her eyes light up with a sudden thought. “Better yet, invite him to Thanksgiving dinner. If he can cook a turkey, he’s a keeper.”

“He can’t cook at all,” Dean deadpans.

Jody just laughs and pulls him in for one last hug, straightening his collar with a pat and a smile. Bobby buckles Sam into his booster seat while Dean loads their bags in the trunk. With a final wave, Dean revs the engine of the newly restored Impala and pulls away, toward the main street and back home.  
  


\-----

  
A week later, Dean finds himself pressed up against the brick wall of Castiel’s apartment complex. He’s 28 years old, he’s a goddamn professor, and yet here he is shamelessly making out like a horny teenager where the whole street can see.

“Would you like to come up?” Castiel pants into his mouth. Thank god for Cas, Dean silently prays.

“You’re so smart,” Dean responds, dazed.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” and tugs Dean past the coded entry door and up the stairs. “The elevator takes too long,” Castiel explains as he pushes Dean up against his door to kiss him again. Dean fishes Castiel’s pockets for his keys.

“They’re not in my crotch,” Castiel growls, pushing Dean harder against the door.

“My bad,” Dean grins, and Castiel shuts him up with another kiss.

“Mm, mm, doorknob,” Dean manages to get out.

The next door over opens and a gasp is heard. “Charles!”

Castiel pulls away with a groan. “Mrs. Tate, my name is not Charles.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. You look so much like my third husband.”

“I know,” Castiel sighs tiredly.

Mrs. Tate tuts and turns toward the elevator. “Don’t mind me, I’m headed to bingo night at the center. Don’t wait up, Charles!”

An awkward silence dampens the moment.

Dean clears his throat. “So you like to marry little old unsuspecting ladies?”

“Shut up, Dean.”

“Love ‘em and leave ‘em, huh? You casanova, you,” Dean ribs.

“Dean. Shut up.”  
  


\-----

  
The frenzied haze dies down temporarily after their run-in with Mrs. Tate, giving them both the opportunity to cool their heads. Castiel leads Dean into his apartment.

“Make yourself at home,” he says as he waves a hand toward the couch. “Would you like something to drink? Water? A beer?”

“A beer would be great,” Dean confirms and Castiel heads to the kitchen. Dean takes a moment to inspect Castiel’s apartment. It’s what he suspected it would look like: spotless and tidy. It’s tastefully decorated, as if the entire place came out of an interior design magazine. Given the way Castiel dresses like a Banana Republic mannequin in a display window, it probably did.

Next to the tray where Cas deposited his keys is a silver frame. The picture is of a young boy, probably no older than 15, mounted on a horse in full gear. Dean leans in closer to inspect the picture. _Holy shit, that’s definitely Cas_ , Dean thinks.

Surprised, he begins to look around the living room in earnest. There are more pictures, some of Castiel with other people, most often a red-headed girl. An old girlfriend perhaps? The thought makes Dean a little jealous. There’s a picture of Castiel’s high school graduation on the wall next to his--

“Holy shit,” Dean breathes out. Next to the picture is Castiel’s degree in Education from _Oxford freaking University_.

“Well don’t just stand there,” Castiel interrupts Dean’s train of thought, carrying two amber bottles, “make yourself comfortable.”

He puts the bottles down on the coffee table ( _on coasters_ , Dean notes) and moves to stand behind Dean. He slips his hands under Dean’s jacket and slides them up his chest to slowly remove it. The jacket falls to the floor with a muffled thud.

Dean turns to face Castiel and pins him against the wall, the fervor from before returning full force. Castiel is more than happy to pick up where they left off, losing himself momentarily in Dean’s enthusiastic attention. When Dean’s teeth on his neck draw a low growl from his throat, Castiel moves them toward the couch, pushing Dean until the backs of his knees hit the armrest and he falls onto his back.

The force of the fall fluffs the pillows and dust motes swirl into the air. Castiel climbs on top of Dean, eagerly turning his attention to suck a mark over the pulse point between his neck and shoulder.

Dean feels a tell-tale tickle in his nose and hurriedly pushes Castiel off him as he sits up. “Wait, wait, ah----ah-----” He sneezes loudly. Then he sneezes again.

Castiel hovers over him, perplexed. “Dean, are you okay?”

Dean sniffs. “Do you have any pets?”

“Only Lucy.”

“Please tell me Lucy is an iguana.”

“No, he’s a cat.” Dean sneezes violently. “Oh no, you’re allergic aren’t you?” Dean nods, face scrunched up in anticipation of another sneeze.

“Really allergic.”

Castiel jumps into action. “Let me get you some Benadryl. I try to keep this place clean, but I guess pet dander gets everywhere.” His voice fades as he disappears into the kitchen. He reemerges with a small white bottle. “Here, take two. I’m so sorry, I should have remembered to ask, stupid, stupid--”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Dean assures him, but his nose is already stuffy, eyes red and watery. He tries to crack a smile. “I bet I look real sexy now, huh?”

“Our curse strikes yet again,” Castiel laughs, but Dean fails to find the humor. They’re both sporting matching boners and Dean’s turned into a disgusting mucus-machine. If Castiel is as affected by the lack of sex in their relationship, he carries it with much more finesse. Dean just wants to cry.

In his next class the following day, he assigns twice the normal amount of reading. A student actually bursts into tears.  
  


\-----

 _  
You know, I do believe we’re cursed_ , Castiel texts later that night during a commercial break. Lucy is curled on his lap, purring loudly as Castiel scratches behind his ears.

The screen of his phone illuminates the dark room with Dean’s response. _shut up saying it makes it real_

Castiel laughs and abandons Lucy in lieu of typing out his reply. Lucy looks up and meows in protest. _Oh, my apologies. Do you think if I make the opposite statement it’ll come true?_ He puts the phone down and resumes watching Top Chef.

It’s time for the elimination of a contestant when his phone vibrates against his leg. Lucy flicks an ear in annoyance.

_maybe..._

Castiel bites his lip and looks over at the window. It’s early evening, but the sun is setting fast, the last streaks of orange fading in the sky like a smothered fire. The days are growing colder and oh-so-perfect for curling around a significant other. If only they could make it happen.

Sudden boldness strikes Castiel, and he types and sends his next message before the more reserved side of his mind can protest.

_I want you out of your pants, Winchester._

The next forty minutes of silence on Dean’s end are excruciating. He figured of all people, Dean could appreciate a sexy text, solicited or otherwise. When his phone finally vibrates, the short reply sets his blood aflame.

_i found an overnight babysitter for sam.... sir ;)_   
  


_\-----_

  
Dean is up and at ‘em before his alarm goes off the next day. Thanks to Jo and her still broken laptop, Dean had managed to convince her to take Sam off his hands for a night. Of course, Jo hadn’t actually needed much wheedling, she’d jumped at the chance to hold onto Sam for longer than a few hours.

“Just don’t braid his hair again; you’re giving him ideas.” Jo had simply laughed.

He’s showered and shaved and pulling up his pants when it strikes him that Sam’s room has been suspiciously quiet. Buttoning his jeans and pulling a belt through the loops, he walks down the hall to Sam’s door and knocks twice.

“Sammy?” At the lack of response, Dean pushes the door open.

Sam is tangled in his blankets and sheets, face flushed with fever and brow wet with sweat. Dean bolts into the room, rearranging the blankets so that Sam is properly tucked in. Sam is briefly exposed to the cold morning air and immediately begins to shiver.

“It’s okay, buddy. I’ve got you.” Dean fetches the first aid kit and pulls out the ear thermometer. The machine beeps. 100.6°F. “Looks like you got yourself a fever, Sammy.”

“I don’t feel good,” he moans in response. Dean pets his hair.

“You rest up. I’m gonna make you soup. Minestrone okay?”

“I’m not hungry.” He burrows himself deeper into his blankets.

“You will be later, but sleep for now, okay?” Dean brushes Sam’s bangs aside and presses a light kiss to his forehead. “Holler if you need anything.”

Sam is already asleep.  
  


\-----

  
It figures, Castiel muses with no real ire, that Sam would end up falling ill the day things had _finally_ fallen into place. Dean had been apologetic over the phone, as if Sam’s sickness had been his own doing, for having to postpone their plans.

“I doubt you want to come over while it’s a category 5 germ storm over here,” Dean had joked with a laugh, before adding in earnest, “I’ll make it up to you.”

Castiel notes that Dean had not ruled out the possibility of Castiel coming over, only presented his assumption that Castiel might not want to. The distinction seems important to him, and he mulls over his options on his drive home from work.

He’s three blocks away from his apartment when he decides their plans needn’t be canceled, just altered. He drives right past the complex and continues making his way downtown. He turns onto Massachusetts Street and drives slowly until he spots a toy store.

Parking his car and entering the store, Castiel begins to think about an appropriate get-well present. Sam is ill, so a puzzle or a game would be put off to the side until his recovery. He wanders past a display of miniature sports equipment when his phone vibrates in his pocket.

Castiel eyes his phone warily before pressing the ‘accept’ button and holds the phone up to his ear.

“Hey bro!”

“Gabriel,” he greets politely. He’s genuinely pleased to hear from his normally very busy brother, but still wary of Gabriel’s motives behind the call.

“So a red-headed birdie told me my little bro finally got himself a loverboy.” _Red-headed bird--_ “Really, Cas? I had to hear it through the grapevine? My feelings are hurt.”

“It’s still a rather new development--?” Castiel admits, furrowing his brow in confusion and surprise. How did Gabriel find out?

“So you don’t deny it,” the A-HA loud and clear. “Finally got yourself a boyfriend, good for you! You’d have gotten laid much sooner had you moved out to California with me--” Castiel scoffs, “but I guess you like your boys midwestern and brawny, which okay, I’ll give you that. All everyone eats over here is tempeh and avocado and let me tell you, there’s just no replacing bacon.”

Wait a minute. “How did Anna find out?” Cas demands.

“You probably shouldn’t keep your phone in your pocket when you’re getting it on, baby bro. You might “accidentally” butt dial your sister while you’re moaning and groaning -- you tiger you!”

“Oh dear lord.” Castiel feels the tips of his ears burn hot and he glances around the store, relieved to find himself virtually alone.

“Personally I think that was a genius way of letting us know you’re dating someone.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” he hisses.

“So who is he? What’s he like? How big’s his dick? Anna says you sounded like you were gagging for it.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Wait! I was just kidding, relax, take that stick out of your ass. Oops, did I say stick? I meant dick.” Castiel pulls his phone away from his ear to glare at it, hoping it will spontaneously burst into flames.

“Goodbye, Gabriel.” Even away from his ear he can hear Gabriel’s loud guffaws turn into a wheezing chuckle as his brother attempts to compose himself.

“Wait, wait, bro--” and it’s as if he knows he has two seconds left, “I CAN’T WAIT TO MEET HIM FOR THANKSGIVING--”

Castiel presses the End Call button and stares as it returns to the home screen. His phone vibrates once as a new text opens.

 _From Gabriel:_ _And I’m arriving with Anna! See ya soon, bro!_  
  


_\-----_

  
Cas pulls onto Dean’s street and parks in the empty spot in front of the house. He tucks the neatly wrapped present under his arm and rings the doorbell.

A muffled, _“Just a minute!”_ floats through the wood of the door, followed by padded footsteps. The door swings open to reveal Dean wearing an apron. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Cas,” he states dumbly, before he seems to remember what he’s wearing and shrugs by way of explanation. “I’m making soup.”

Castiel holds up the package. “Since Sam is sick, I figured you might need some help.” He lowers his arms. “Besides, we had an appointment, and I thought it’d be in our best interest to honor it.”

The smile that greets him causes Castiel’s stomach to perform olympic flips. Dean’s eyes shine in affection and it’s the same look he gives Sam when Sam says something especially endearing. Castiel has no proper response to the attention so he steps forward and presses his lips against Dean’s. “May I come in?”

“Since you asked,” Dean grins and pulls Castiel into the house by the lapels of his coat. “Did you come here straight from work?” he asks as he hangs Castiel’s coat on the coat rack.

Castiel runs a hand through his untamable hair, and somehow manages to make it worse. “Not exactly,” he motions to the box he set down. “I picked up a small ‘get well’ present for Sam. I hope you don’t mind.”

Dean crowds close to Castiel. “Jesus, Cas, of course I don’t mind.” Castiel mentally preens as he accepts the kisses Dean offers before Dean retreats back to the kitchen with the order to “make yourself at home.”

Castiel takes a moment to wander around the living room. The room is cluttered, but not disorganized. Most of it is a mess of toys that have yet to be put away. It’s fairly obvious a four year-old lives here. There’s a bookshelf in the corner full of textbooks -- _Dean’s_ , he thinks -- and various pictures decorating the mantle. Castiel takes his time looking at each one: pictures of Dean fishing, Dean holding up a large catch next to his beaming father, Dean sitting on the hood of the Impala barely a day over 18, Dean sitting on his mother’s lap smiling broadly.

There’s no lack of Sam pictures, either: Sam crawling toward the photographer with a big toothless smile, Sam banging a large wooden spoon against a pot in the kitchen, Sam holding a small stuffed clown and crying, Sam’s first birthday seated on Dean’s lap reaching for the candle.

The house, Castiel decides, is lovely and full of memories. His sharp eyes, however, don’t miss the empty spots on the wall where frames used to hang, the paint bright and clean compared to the rest of the wall where the sun has eaten away at the color. This house has seen its share of horror and disappointment; this house with its too big walls and its too big rooms, daunting for two small boys struggling to fill it.

“Hey, Cas.” Dean appears in the doorway and breaks him from his dark thoughts. “Come taste this.” Castiel obediently follows Dean into the kitchen. Dean blows gently on a spoon, full to the brim with soup. “Open up.”

Castiel accepts the soup and chews thoughtfully. “Minestrone?” he questions.

Dean turns back to the stove and samples the soup as well. Pleased, he sets the spoon down and turns the heat off. “Sam’s a vegetarian. Well, a pescatarian if you really want to get technical.” He unties the apron and pulls it off, lazily folding it in two and tossing it on the kitchen island. “He’s the pickiest eater I’ve ever met, no idea where he got it. He definitely didn’t get it from me.”

Castiel’s fingers twitch with the impulse to hang the apron next to the others by the back door. “Yes, you do seem like someone with a more voracious appetite.”

“Dude, did you just call me a glutton?”

“Not at all,” Cas replies innocently. “How is Sam doing?”

Dean opens a cabinet and pulls out a lid. “He’s been asleep most of the day, but I’m betting he’s got another hour before I force feed him some soup.” He covers the pot with its lid and turns back toward Cas with a playful glint in his eye.

“So...what do you want to do? There are some great movies on Lifetime--”  
  


\-----

  
“My my, what strong thighs you have,” Dean mock-narrates, running his hands slowly up Cas’s thighs and feeling the muscles shift under his palms. Castiel smirks above him and settles more of his weight onto Dean, pressing Dean further into the couch. “Must have been all those years playing rugby during your Oxford days.”

Castiel freezes, loosening the grip of his thighs. “How did you know about that?”

“Lucky guess,” Dean shrugs, using Castiel’s shock to flip them around with ease. “Or maybe I’m a genius. Been putting a lot of little clues together and you know, I think I finally have you pinned.” He emphasizes the last word by pressing his weight against Castiel’s crotch.

“What--”

“You’re a rich boy.”

Castiel scoffs. “Dean, I live in a modest apartment. I’m a school teacher.”

“You also play the piano and the cello, ride horses, play rugby, and oh yeah, went to Oxford,” Dean ticks off on his fingers.

“On a scholarship.” The protest is weak.

“Could you have gone without one?”

Castiel hesitates. “That’s-- that’s a difficult question to answer.”

“A-HA,” Dean cries triumphantly, and begins to mercilessly tickle Castiel. He finds Castiel’s neck is more ticklish than his underarms, but tickling his sides leaves Castiel a squirming, panting mess. Castiel tries to push Dean away, breath coming in short laughing gasps, but there’s no strength in his arms.

“Say uncle,” Dean commands.

“I have no possible relationship with your--”

“Your funeral.”

The tickling stops when Dean starts to ghost his fingers lightly over Castiel’s abdomen. The hands futilely trying to push Dean away instead draw him nearer, and Castiel and Dean kiss and nip at each other before a lull in their impromptu make-out session gives Castiel a chance to speak.

“For the record, we’re not all ‘spoiled babies with trust funds.’”

“Fair, but you still stuck up for Bela,” Dean counters, loosely wrapping his fingers around Castiel’s wrists.

“I stuck up for Sam,” Castiel corrects. “You try sitting by while he cries his eyes out for an hour.”

“I smell favoritism,” Dean sing-songs, lifting Castiel’s still-weak arms over his head and pinning them to the arm of the couch.

“I care deeply about all the students in my charge.”

“Yeah, but you care about Sam more.”

“...There’s no political way for me to answer that. Anyway, you had every right to tell me to mind my own. Why didn’t you?”

Dean stills on top of Castiel, brows lifting at the question. He absent-mindedly rubs his thumbs against the pulse points on Castiel’s wrists, watching Castiel look up at him with wondrous inquiry. Dean swallows and clears his throat.

“I may have overreacted a little. She hit my car and I saw red. I said some...stuff in the heat of the moment, to her and to you. Real shining moment,” he mutters, embarrassed. “Anyway I gave her a call, we duked it out some more, she promised to have her chauffeur drive, I agreed, yadda yadda.” Dean rolls his eyes. “I decided one visit at Ice Queen’s Castle wasn’t going to be the end of the world. Sam told me she even played with him and Ruby, in the muddy yard and everything -- if I didn’t hate her so much, I’d say she’s alright.”

“Don’t strain yourself.”

“Oh, I’m straining all right.” Dean lowers his hips to Castiel’s, rubbing his denim-clad erection against Castiel’s chinos. Castiel lets out a groan and Dean licks his lips.

“Then there’s this guy,” he trails off with a grin.

A lazy smile appears on Castiel’s face. “Oh?” he prompts, lifting his hips in search of more friction.

Dean tightens his grip on Castiel’s wrists. “And I really, really want to get into his pants.”  
  


\-----

  
Since Sam is asleep, things heat up quickly. Dean tries to pause long enough to turn on the television in hopes it will drown out any questionable sounds, but Castiel keeps distracting him by nipping at his neck. He finally manages to press the red power button and the television comes to life, presenting a _Dr. Sexy, M.D._ marathon in full HD glory. Horrified, Dean drops the remote and it tumbles under the coffee table. A mouth on his neck jerks him out of his sudden shock.

“I’ve, uh,” he mumbles between kisses, “I’ve never actually seen this show--”

“I don’t care.” Dean’s yanked back down, and okay  _bossy_ , before Castiel kisses him soundly. Dean relishes in the warmth of his mouth, the feel of Cas’s tongue slipping against his own.

“This is about where we left off last time,” Dean smirks, tugging Castiel’s shirt out of his pants, rubbing his thumbs in circles over sharp hipbones.

“Actually,” Castiel points out, lifting onto his elbows and mouthing along Dean’s jaw, “ _this_ ,” he tumbles them off the couch and onto the carpeted floor, trapping Dean once again underneath him, “is where we left off last time. Pinned, on your back, and right where I want you.” And _damn_ if that didn’t turn Dean on even more.

They stare at each other silently, both panting, before Castiel says hurriedly,  “I’m so sorry, did I hurt you--”

“A little, I kinda liked it though--”

“Did you hit your head--”

“Cas, it’s cool-- _ow_ \--”

“-- _Dean?_ ”calls out a weak voice from upstairs.

“Sam.” They both realize in unison before scrambling up. Castiel grabs Sam’s get-well present and follows Dean up the stairs.  
  


\-----

  
“Hey, kiddo. How you feeling?” Sam looks over at Dean and coughs pathetically, squirming in his cocoon of blankets to release a hand to beckon Dean closer. Dean sits on the edge of the bed, checking Sam’s temperature with his hand. “You have a visitor, buddy. Can he come in?”

Sam turns his head toward the doorway and sees Cas leaning on the door jamb.

Sam stares at Cas and then looks back at Dean. “Am I in trouble?”

Cas laughs and stands a few feet away from the bed. “No, Sam. I came by to give you a get-well present, but Dean made me promise you can’t open it until you have a bowl of soup.”

Sam scowls and burrows back into his blankets. “‘m not hungry.”

“Just one small bowl,” Dean barters.

Sam huffs, bangs lifting off his forehead with the released breath. “You always say one and then you make me eat more,” he whines.

Castiel sets the present on the nightstand and settles down next to Dean. “I bet you feel really crummy, being sick and stuck in bed all day.”

“Yeah,” Sam sniffs, mucus running down his nose. Dean holds a tissue to Sam’s nose with a soft command of, “blow.”

“I bet you’d rather be playing with your toys downstairs.”

Sam nods sadly, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand.

“Too bad you don’t want soup,” Dean tuts, “it wants to help you fight off this cold.”

“It does?”

Dean nods, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially, “Soup is very powerful, very old magic.”

Cas frowns at the back of Dean’s head.

“Is that true?” Sam turns to Cas for confirmation, enraptured by the new knowledge.

“Actually--” Dean subtly elbows him in the side, “--yes. It’s a very, uh, very well kept secret.” He squints his eyes and nods sagely.

“I want to play,” Sam whines at Dean desperately.

Dean grins, victorious. “Should I bring you some soup?”

There’s a brief shuffle while Dean brings the soup. Cas pulls a red wooden chair from a corner of the room and places it by the head of the bed, next to the nightstand. When Dean returns, he hands the bowl to Cas while he settles on the bed. Sam climbs onto his lap and refuses the proffered bowl from Cas.

He looks up at Dean and says simply, “You do it.”

Dean rolls his eyes but takes the bowl from Cas and proceeds to spoon-feed Sam, making the occasional airplane sound that leaves Sam in peals of laughter.

The soup is halfway done, but Sam turns his head at the next spoonful to look eagerly at Cas. “Mister Milton, can I have my present now?”

Castiel looks at Dean for permission, and at Dean’s nod, he takes the box off the nightstand and begins to unwrap the bow.

“Close your eyes and hold out your hands,” Castiel instructs. Sam’s arms shoot out obediently, hands cupped in anticipation.

“You’re totally peeking, you little cheater!” Dean laughs, placing a hand over Sam’s eyes.

Sam giggles and makes a grabbing motion with his hands.

“I brought you a new friend,” Castiel says as he places a large, floppy moose plush toy in Sam’s hands. “You can look now.”

Sam gasps. “It’s a moose!!” He hugs it tight to his chest and shakes excitedly. “I’ve never had a moose before. What does he eat?”

“Well, funny that you ask because...” Cas pulls out a thin book from the mess of tissue paper inside the box, “I also brought you this.” He presents the book to Sam, who bounces in delight.

“Storytime!!”

Cas smiles fondly at Sam. “I’ll read it if you keep up the good work and finish your bowl of soup.”

Sam nods and opens his mouth for another spoonful. Dean feels his chest swell with warmth at Sam and Cas’s interaction. It’s plain to see that Sam  _adores_ Castiel, and Dean is beginning to suspect that so might he.

Dean clears his throat and kisses the top of Sam’s head.

Castiel props open the book on his lap and begins to read softly to the two boys listening attentively on the bed. “If you give a moose a muffin, he’ll want some jam to go with it...”


	5. A Mid-Autumn's Night Scheme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winchesters are a sneaky bunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the change in rating. Enjoy.

With October coming to a close, autumn is in full swing. The foliage in and around the backyard has morphed into reds and golds, the trees littering the yard with leaves. Dean pauses from raking to wipe his forehead on his sleeve. The leaves that have accumulated over the week are taking longer than he’d anticipated to rake into piles, but are providing a source of great entertainment for Sam who happily digs through them to look for twigs to serve as moose antlers.

It’s no surprise to Dean that Sam’s newest obsession is the star of his most recent favorite book. Dean has read _If You Give A Moose A Muffin_ to him every day for a week since Cas read it to him, sometimes even twice a night. Dean can practically recite the whole book by heart.

Sam suddenly drops the two twigs he’d been holding up to his head and lunges at Dean’s legs, wrapping tightly around his left and clinging to the denim.

“Can we make muffins, Dean? Please please please please?” Sam drags out the final ‘please’ while looking up imploringly. The leg-clinging is a new ( _annoying_ ) habit Sam’s picked up as a method of getting his way. Dean has quickly learned that Sam’s added weight makes several chores very difficult: vacuuming, laundry, grading papers, etc. It’s infuriatingly successful.

“Just like in the book, Dean! I want muffins,” he pouts and shifts his feet to balance precariously on Dean’s shoe.

“How about you help me finish up out here first?” Dean motions to the open door of the shed where Sam’s mini rake is leaning against the wall.

Sam shakes his head, his floppy hair fluttering in the wind. “Muffins!” A particularly strong gust scatters the leaves Dean had painstakingly gathered into a neat mound.

He sighs. “Alright, muffins it is.”

Sam lets go of Dean’s leg with a cheer and zips off into the kitchen through the back door. He kicks off his shoes, foregoing the velcro straps, and leaves them abandoned by the screen door left ajar. By the time Dean’s set down the rake by the shed, Sam’s already digging deep through the bottom cabinets for a mixing bowl, his blue sweats and striped socks the only visible part of him.

“What are you in the mood for, buddy?” Dean asks as he pulls out some of the essentials from the pantry.

“Cornbread,” Sam’s muffled voice comes from inside the cabinet before he emerges with a large plastic mixing bowl.

Dean sets his dry ingredients on the kitchen island counter, scoops Sam off the floor and sets him on a chair. “Are you going to help me measure?”

“I want to crack the eggs,” Sam decides.

Dean nods and the two begin to prepare the batter. Sam ends up helping with the mixing, too, gripping the large wooden spoon with both hands and stirring counterclockwise in a meticulous fashion.

The oven announces the end of the preheat cycle with a single beep just as Dean is scraping the last of the batter into a muffin tin. He pulls on his oven mitts and places the two trays on the middle rack. He closes the oven door and Sam peers through the glass window, eager for the muffins to rise.

Dean picks up the wind-up timer and turns it slowly.

“How many minutes, Sammy?”

“15 minutes!” Sam chirps while wiping a finger on the countertop to lick at a rogue splash of batter.

“Sam, that has raw egg in it,” Dean admonishes. Sam finishes licking his finger anyway. “Don’t come crying to me when you get salmonella,” and wipes down the counter before Sam decides he rather likes the taste of raw batter.

“Samella,” Sam repeats and laughs at the silly-sounding word.  
  


\-----

  
Dean startles to consciousness at nearly four in the morning to suspicious noises in the backyard. Despite the nice neighborhood, burglaries seldom do occur, and he’s damned if it’s gonna happen to him and Sammy. He stealthily makes his way downstairs, grabbing a wooden baseball bat from the coat closet.

He pads into the kitchen and up to the backdoor, glimpsing through the glass panels. He can’t see much through the early morning darkness and light fog. He flicks the switch for the backyard light, but nothing happens. He flips the switch a few more times before giving up with a curse.

 _Just my damn luck_ , he swears, _the light bulb’s gone out_.

It’s deathly quiet outside, even the crickets have stopped their chirping. For a minute all he hears is his own breathing, then he hears it again: distinct rustling. The hairs on his bare legs stand on end and he re-adjusts the grip on the bat, opening the door slowly. He cautiously steps outside, eyes darting every which way, looking for any signs of danger.

The motion-sensored light near the garage turns on and a dark shadow ducks behind one of the trashcans. That’s when Dean notices the other trashcan has been tipped over, its contents strewn everywhere.

“W-Who’s there?” So much for sounding large-and-in-charge. He tries again, “I swear to god, I have a bat and I played baseball in high school.”

Only silence answers him.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, fucker,” he growls, and takes a deep breath before pushing the second trash bin out of the way. Two raccoons look up at him, one holding a familiar looking muffin, the other’s cheeks fit to bursting, its nose and whiskers covered in crumbs.

“Jesus!” Dean _does not_ scream, taking a step back. The raccoons take this opportunity to flea, running around Dean and scrambling over the wooden fence. In their abandoned spot, several half eaten muffins lay as if in a horrific crime scene, the scent of corn wafting in the cool morning air.

Once back inside, Dean confirms that those had, in fact, been this afternoon’s muffins by checking the bowl on the dining room table. Only two muffins remain, Sam’s ever-generous personality graciously allowing himself and Dean one muffin each.

Oh, Sam is in _so_ much trouble.  
  


\-----

  
“I was moose-hunting!” Sam cries, dramatic tears rolling down his cheeks and snot dripping down his red nose.

“I know why you did it, Sam, but you’re still grounded.”

“No!” Sam denies, shaking his head wildly.

“Sorry, buddy. You know the rules: no TV for a week.”

“No!” Sam screams.

“It’s your choice: no TV for a week, or no trip to the pumpkin patch?” It’s last minute, but Dean can just tell Cas that Sam no longer has permission to go on this month’s field trip. He’s hoping Sam will choose the first option over the second, not entirely eager to have _that_ conversation with the zealous educator.

Sam looks devastated, lip trembling as he considers his choices. “N-n-no T-TV,” he blubbers. New tears spill over. “I just want a moose!”

“I know,” Dean comforts, placing Sam on his lap and rubbing his back in small circles, “I know.”

“It’s-it’s n-not fair,” Sam mumbles into Dean’s chest, “I want a moose so-so I c-can ride it to school. Like a horsie, but more cool.”

Dean chokes.  
  


\-----  
  


By Monday, Sam’s (mostly) over his failed moose trap and has accepted his punishment with resignation. He tells Castiel all about it -- or his version of it, anyway -- as Castiel makes his rounds around the classroom.

“Now I’m grounded and I don’t get muffins and I can’t watch TV,” he ends his story sadly while using a thick paint brush to color in a fat raccoon holding a still steaming muffin.

“You’d have to go far up north to find a moose, Sam. Have you ever been to Canada?”

Sam shakes his head. “Is that where they live?”

“Among a few other places, yes.” He holds out his hand for Sam to take and leads him to a large map of North America on the wall opposite the art supplies. Castiel points to a shiny sticker of a star designating the location of Lawrence, Kansas. “We’re here. This is where you live.” He drags his finger up north slowly until he reaches a large grey mass labeled ‘Canada.’ “Moose live here. This is Canada.”

“Ohhh,” Sam nods, processing the information. “That’s not that far, Mr. Milton,” he states, matter-of-factly. “Moose are big and I bet they can walk down here in one, no, two hours. And I would pet mine all the time and brush it and feed it and it could sleep in the backyard and Dean wouldn’t even have to play with it because it would have me.”

Not sure where to begin challenging Sam’s beliefs on moose, Castiel settles for lending Sam a children’s magazine issue dedicated to the animal in question. Sam takes it eagerly and puts it in his desk.

“Now finish up your raccoon painting so I can hang it up on the wall,” Castiel encourages, patting him on the shoulder.

During lunch, Castiel makes copies of a field trip checklist for his students’ parents/guardians to go over before tomorrow’s grand day out. The checklist provides a little section on appropriate dress, covering details from hats to shoes. At the end of the packet, Castiel has included the weather forecast for tomorrow and a reminder to bring a coat or a jacket.

Kevin hands the packets out while Castiel re-briefs his students about the trip, reminding them to not bring their backpacks and to be ready for a fun day. The children titter excitedly as they file out of the classroom, some boasting about the large pumpkins they’ll bring home.

Sam turns and waves goodbye before following after Ben and leaving with the Braedens.  
  


\-----

  
Castiel hums while tidying up the classroom. He fastidiously straightens out the desks and makes sure each chair is pushed into its corresponding desk. The students had been particularly helpful during cleanup time, and upon closer inspection of the desks, he decides there’s no need for a second wipedown.

While Cas is wrapping his scarf around his neck, it dawns on him that _Sam had not gone home with Dean_. Sam had gone on his monthly playdate with a friend, this time to spend an afternoon doing kid yoga at Lisa Braeden’s yoga studio. Which means, Cas pieces together, Dean is free for dinner. Pulling out his phone, he sends Dean a quick text before locking up his classroom and heading toward his car.  
  


\-----

  
Dean had been quick to report his whereabouts, and before long Castiel finds himself driving onto the university campus. He slides into a parking spot and looks for a campus map to point him in the direction of the English Department.

Thankfully, a few helpful students are able to guide him until their paths diverge, one going so far as to walk him until the building comes into view.

“It’s that building right over there, you can’t miss it.” The student departs with a wave, and Castiel continues down the road toward the brick building.

Once inside, he spots the faculty directory and finds Dean’s entry. ( _Prof. Winchester, English, Rm. 211_.) He quickly heads upstairs and is just rounding a corner when a smaller, slightly rotund body collides with his.

“My apologies,” Castiel excuses himself and takes a step back, noting the man’s meticulous appearance. _Probably another professor_ , Castiel decides to himself.

“Nothing to worry about, love,” he says, patting at his coat to rid himself of imaginary dirt. Only his accent forgives the endearment.

“Do you know where I can find Professor Winchester’s office?”

The man looks him up and down in an unveiled appreciative glance. “I don’t suppose you’re one of his students?”

“I’m not,” Castiel responds simply, missing his queue to offer any additional information.

The man waits a beat before huffing in amusement. “Handsome _and_ clueless.” The man takes a quick glance at his very expensive watch, the face bordered with small studs of white diamond, before extending his hand. “Fergus Crowley, Head of the English Department. And you are...?”

 _Oh_ , Castiel realizes, _this is Dean’s boss_. He clears his throat and shakes his hand. “Castiel Milton, I’m a teacher at a private elementary school here in Lawrence.”

“Charmed,” Fergus grins, slowly pulling away from the handshake while making deliberate eye contact. “You’ll find Dean’s office just down that hall on your left.” His eyes give Castiel a once over, lingering on his rear for a moment before meeting his gaze. “And you’ll find mine on the very end, if you catch my _carefully_ veiled innuendo. Now enough chatter, I must run.” He waggles his fingers. “Tah, angel.”

Castiel watches Fergus leave and round the corner before continuing down the hall, toward the room where Dean is currently squirreled away, slaving over ungraded midterms.

He passes by the offices of Prof. Henriksen, Mr. Shurley, and others before reaching his intended destination. There’s a little glass plaque next to the door signifying the office is Dean’s, but with the door open and Dean sitting inside grading papers, it’s rather hard to miss. Castiel leans against the doorjamb and watches as Dean reads his notes for the paper aloud.

“B-minus for a surface comparison of vampiric literature,” he mumbles, “could have explored thematic similarities between texts further, in particular the role of consent in conversion. What is the difference between consent and induced consent? Operationalize it!”

Dean pauses with a frown. “Is a B-minus too lenient?”

“On the contrary, you are quite the harsh grader,” Castiel interjects, stepping into the office and closing the door behind him with a click.

Dean looks up and smiles. “Says you,” he disagrees, “my worst student.”

“I’m trying really hard to pass your class, Mr. Winchester.” Castiel insists, his tone turned earnest and innocent, and Dean’s imagination explodes with images of Cas during his college days.

“Professor Winchester,” Dean corrects with a smirk.

“Professor Winchester, sir.”

“Well if you paid more attention in class...” Dean trails off, rising from his seat and coming around the desk to press Cas against the door.

“The subject matter is all so confusing,” Cas tilts his head up, his eyes wide, guileless, and blue. “I think I need extra guidance.”

Dean groans, “Cas, you’re killing me,” and finally greets him with a heavy kiss. He pulls away with reluctance and rests his forehead against Cas’s shoulder. “We cannot do this here.”

“Would it help if I told you your boss stepped out just a moment ago?” Castiel offers hopefully.

Dean lifts his head. “How do you know my boss?”

“I’m certain our exchange was a flirtation on his behalf. Fergus was not shy to insinuate I visit him in his office for the exact same nefarious reason I have to come to yours.”

Dean’s face morphs from disbelief to disgust. “ _Fergus?_ That fucker,” he growls, gripping Cas’s hair to bring him in for a more demanding kiss. Castiel responds eagerly to Dean’s possessive behavior, a small moan making its way between kisses to fill the otherwise quiet room. The generous sounds coming from Cas’s throat threaten to dissolve Dean’s sense of propriety.

“Okay, no,” Dean breaks away with a gasp, “we need to stop before we can’t stop.”

Castiel nips at Dean’s jaw. “And you call yourself an English professor.”

“Ha, ha,” Dean responds, and pinches Cas’s ass. Hard.

Castiel yips. “Ah!”

Dean’s dick twitches in response. “Okay, we _really_ need to stop.”

Dean sits back down on his chair and Cas rubs his smarting ass cheek before sitting down on the other seat.

“What are your plans for Halloween?” Dean asks, capping his pen and tossing it in the first drawer of his desk.

“No plans, I’m not fond of the holiday,” Cas replies at the same time his eyes notice the Halloween decorations littering the tiny office.

“Is it a religious thing?” Dean asks, berating himself internally. _Religious name, religious upbringing, duh Winchester_.

“It’s not a religious matter, although I was raised in a Christian household,” Castiel explains. “Halloween,” he pauses, searching for words to describe his general dislike of the holiday. “It’s the whole affair,” he begins to tick off fingers, “watching scary movies, dressing up in deliberately grotesque and macabre costumes, eating obscene amounts of candy -- I’ve never liked any of it.”

Dean stares at him in disbelief. “My god, you are so adorably _boring_. You just named all the reasons Halloween is awesome. _Especially_ the scary movies, dude. How can you hate the classics? Friday the 13th? Nightmare on Elm Street?” Cas narrows his eyes in response and Dean barks a laugh. “Okay, okay, so you’re not a fan.”

“Your passion for the holiday rivals Gabriel’s.”

The casual mention of the unfamiliar name throws Dean. “Is that your...” Dean trails off, suddenly nervous about the direction of the conversation. He doesn’t think he’s ready to talk about exes, _especially Castiel’s_ , a jealous voice in his head mocks.

Castiel continues, oblivious to Dean’s discomfort. “Although I should have known better than to spend my first real Halloween with him.”

Okay, so they’re definitely talking about exes. Dean shoots for nonchalant.

“Do you guys still...talk?” _Please say no, please say no, please say no_.

“Of course,” _FUCK_ , “he’s my brother.”

“OH,” Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “I mean right. Of course he’s your brother.” He forces a laugh that comes out sounding more like a bray, dashing any hopes of disguising his relief and embarrassment.

“You thought I was talking about an ex-boyfriend,” Castiel observes bluntly.

“No, well,” Dean attempts to deny before slumping his shoulders in defeat. “Yes.”

“I _have_ dated other people, Dean.” Castiel hesitates. “Do you...want to talk about them?”

“NO!” _Them? Plural??_ “So!” Dean says loudly, desperate for a change of topic, “You have a brother, that’s cool. I didn’t know that.” _How did I not know that?_ He’s come to understand Castiel’s penchant for taciturnity, in fact rather enjoys his usually quiet, sometimes mysterious demeanor, but it had not occurred to Dean how intensely a private person Castiel could really be. He didn’t even know the man had a brother for crying out loud, and that’s first-date basics. Most of what he knows about the kindergarten teacher are facts he’s gleaned from their conversations and some major Sherlock Holmes-ing from his brief, disastrous visit to Cas’s apartment.

“I have an older sister as well, Anna. I lived with her for a time while I was in grad school.”

Part of his attraction to Cas, Dean decides, is the challenge he presents. He’s never had to fight so much to get to know someone. It’s as much infuriating as it is exciting. “I bet you’re the hottest Milton sibling,” Dean winks.

“In terms of temperance, I would say I’m the coolest.”

“Not what I meant,” Dean chuckles, glad the conversation is veering back toward safer waters. “But hey, I think you should give Halloween a second chance. I can’t really do scary with Sam--”

“And the stories about wendigos don’t count as scary?” Castiel interjects, skeptical.

“--that’s _different_ ,” he defends weakly, “but you should still spend it with us. Sam’s dressing up as a moose so I’m going as a mountie.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“I don’t find members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police particularly arousing,” Cas deadpans.

“Dude,” Dean protests, “You should find me arousing in any state of dress.”

“I already do.”

“Oh.” His grin turns a little goofy. “Awesome.”  
  


\-----

  
The second the school bus bumps and rattles to a stop, the screaming and chattering rises in decibel.

“If you can hear me, clap once.” A few scattered claps sound in the bus. Castiel tries again. “If you can hear me, clap twice.” The bus settles into a buzzing silence, save for the click of a disposable camera. “Ed, Harry, save your pictures for later.”

Once he has the children’s attention, it doesn’t take long to organize them into two groups for the hayride. He hoists each student onto the wagon beds, and they dutifully make room for each other on the hay bales. Kevin hops onto the second wagon while Castiel takes the first, sitting next to their guide and owner of the farm, Farmer Tom.

Farmer Tom takes them on a tour of the grounds, stopping the wagons occasionally to point out specific animals and crops.

“Over there, way down there,” he points, the children turning to see what lies in the distance, “are the pumpkins. That’s the last stop on the tour, after lunch.”

At the barn, the students beg and plead for the tour to stop so they can pet the sheep and goats.

“Maybe just the sheep,” Farmer Tom allows, “the goats are too big ‘n’ temperamental for you lot.”

Soon after, he leads the group into a neatly manicured clearing next to the pumpkin patch, parking the wagons next to a small wooden cabin emitting delicious aromas, the words ‘General Store’ painted simply in white over the threshold.

It’s a sunny day, but the wind is a bit nippy, so as Castiel unloads the students from the hayride wagons, he makes sure every coat zipper is zipped; every button, buttoned; and every drawstring pulled tight and tied. The children gather around the ponies to gently pet their gleaming coats. One pony nuzzles playfully at Jessica’s hair, snorting in protest when the group pulls away.

They step into the general store which turns out to be a souvenir shop and bakery rolled into one. In honor of autumn and the abundance of pumpkins, the store’s inventory is an impressive array of pumpkin products: cans of pumpkin soup, jars of pumpkin butter, bags of raw and toasted pumpkin seeds. The bakery’s spread offers some staples, but its highlights are the special pumpkin baked goods: pumpkin pie, pumpkin cheesecake bars, pumpkin doughnuts, pumpkin bread, to name a few. Each row of hot pastries draws the four year-olds close until they’re all pressed nose-to-glass against the display case.

The woman behind the counter leans over and laughs good-naturedly, endeared by all the hungry faces. “You know what’s my favorite thing for a cold day like today?” she suggests. “A nice, hot mug of pumpkin hot chocolate.”

This draws the children’s attention immediately, and before long, each student is nursing a small mug of the rich drink. Castiel and Kevin, though tempted by the chocolate, opt instead for pumpkin lattes topped with white froth and sprinkled with cinnamon and nutmeg.

With drinks in hand, the group wanders back outside to congregate at a large, wooden picnic table. The school-provided lunches are stacked neatly at the end, each box carefully labelled for their intended recipient.

The lunches are handed out and soon the sounds of happy munching and cheerful chatter fill the air. Sam opens his box, unwraps his sandwich, and is promptly distraught by its contents. He lets out a small whimper and sits dejectedly at the table.

Ruby notices his slumped shoulders. “Whassa matter?” she asks between bites of her own sandwich. “You don’ like turkey?”

Sam shakes his head, tears beginning to well in his eyes.

Ruby’s eyes widen. “Uh-oh.” She puts her sandwich down and shoots a hand into the air. “Mister Milton!”

Castiel is occupied with Ed and Harry, helping them rewind the film on their disposable cameras, so Kevin makes his way over in the educator’s stead.

“Yes, Ruby?”

“Sam doesn’t want his sammich,” she supplies, then turns to Sam. “Do you want my chips?”

Sam is simply too devastated to accept or reject the offer. He tilts his head up toward Kevin and sniffles. “I got turkey,” his voice cracks, and a fat tear streaks down his cheek.

Sam is one of Kevin’s favorite students; academically, he’s the most advanced (and impressively so), but emotionally he’s the most sensitive of all his classmates -- easily brought to tears and _not_ easily placated. Any situation involving the small Winchester’s tears is a situation well above his paygrade. Recognizing the signs of one of Sam’s cry-a-thons, Kevin quickly flags down Castiel to nip this one in the bud.

Castiel places the disposable cameras back in Harry and Ed’s waiting hands before making his way over. “What’s wrong?”

“Sam got turkey,” Kevin reports as Ruby tries to offer a chip from her bag to Sam.

Sam lets out a distressed hiccup. Castiel quickly assesses the situation, glancing at Sam’s open lunchbox and then at Sam’s still quivering lip. There’s enough time for damage control and Castiel doesn’t hesitate, swooping in to lift Sam out of his seat and hitching him onto his hip.

“Looks like we accidentally got you the wrong lunch, hm?”

Sam buries his face in Castiel’s shoulder, clinging to his thick wool sweater.

“Why don’t we look at some lunch options inside the store?”

Sam looks up at Castiel, teeth worrying away at his bottom lip. He nods finally, uncharacteristically shy.

Castiel nods and walks into the general store, opening the door with one hand and taking care to not bump Sam against the door frame. The lunch menu options prove to be equally as enticing as the dessert options, the flavorful aromas of pumpkin ravioli causing Sam’s stomach to growl.

“You like mac and cheese, don’t you Sam?”

“Yes,” he mumbles, his grip on Castiel’s sweater steady and true.

“This is pumpkin mac and cheese,” the woman from earlier informs kindly. “Do you want to taste it first?” She holds out a small bite of the warm pasta on a tasting spoon. Sam clings harder to Castiel’s side, so Castiel takes the spoon for him, blows on the steaming noodles, and brings it close to his mouth. Sam opens his mouth obediently and eats the offered food, chewing thoughtfully.

“What do you think?” Castiel asks gently.

Sam swallows and breaks into a toothy smile. “It’s good!” His gloom lifted, he looks to Castiel and pleads, “Can I have more?”

“Why don’t we get you a bowl?” Sam agrees enthusiastically and the lady sets on preparing the smallest container.

“Mister Milton,” Sam tugs, “can I have a large bowl?”

“Do you think you can finish an entire large bowl?”

“It’s really good and I bet Jess and Ben and Ruby are gonna want some, too,” Sam babbles happily, his good nature shining through and through. Castiel can’t bring himself to say no.

“...Very well.”  
  


\-----

  
After lunch, the students explore the pumpkin patch with full bellies, climbing over pumpkins almost their height. Some pumpkins are even taller, inspiring awe from the four year olds. Kevin follows after the group with the school’s Canon camera, snapping pictures to decorate the walls of their classroom.

“I want this one!” Adam points to a large, warped pumpkin that stands a few scant inches taller than him.

Madison stands next to a taller pumpkin and wraps her arms as far as they’ll reach around it. “I want this one! My daddy can open it and I can hide in it!” She demonstrates by hiding behind the vegetable and popping out a few seconds later, shouting, ”Boo!”

All the other children erupt in a chorus of giggles and suddenly exploring the pumpkin patch becomes a game of hide-and-scare, students darting behind large pumpkins to try and startle their classmates. Kevin switches the camera setting to video and records a few minutes of the impromptu game.

Sam runs from pumpkin to pumpkin as Ben, Ruby, and Madison chase him around the patch, laughing and tumbling around in the dirt. Castiel does a headcount every five or so minutes, always glad to encourage physical activity, but not willing to lose anyone in the pumpkin patch.

The laughter begins to subside and the students pause to stretch and catch their breaths. Farmer Tom tilts his hat against the sun and leads them into a smaller section of the patch, pumpkins getting smaller and more uniform in shape and color.

“We’re almost there, kids,” Farmer Tom gestures excitedly, opening a rickety wooden gate that leads to a narrow path trudged through tall grass.

Ruby pouts as they make their way single-file through the grass. “I can’t see where we’re goin’.”

The other children “yeah” and “me, too!” in agreement.

Farmer Tom chuckles deep and turns to share a grin with Castiel and Kevin. “Well, don’t you worry, kids. We’re here!” He steps aside to present a small clearing bursting with the smallest pumpkins anyone has ever seen.

“You can all take one home,” Castiel instructs. “So pick your favorite.”  
  


\-----

  
“Cute pumpkin,” Dean comments as he and Sam walk back to the car.

“It’s the best pumpkin,” Sam exclaims, waving it around. “I got the best one.”

“Alright, champ,” Dean says as he settles Sam into his booster seat, “The Roadhouse okay for dinner tonight?”

“Yeah!”

Dean pulls away from the curb toward The Roadhouse, elementary school disappearing from sight as they turn the corner.

“Are you excited for Halloween tomorrow?” He only half-listens to Sam’s excited babble, distracted and nervous as he is. Since he invited Cas to join them trick-or-treating, he only feels it right to run it by Sam.

“--and I’m gonna get more candy than you, and I’m gonna--”

“Hey buddy,” Dean interrupts, “do you mind if someone comes with us to help us trick or treat?”

“Like Ruby and her mama?” Sam asks hopefully, stars in his eyes.

“No,” Dean shudders. “I was thinking more like Cas-- I mean, Mr. Milton.”

Sam falls silent and Dean risks a glance at him through the rearview mirror. Sam’s gaze is particularly scrutinizing. Dean’s hands wring the steering wheel nervously. Truth be told, he’d expected Sam not to care.

“Is Mister Milton your boyfriend?” Sam asks suspiciously from the backseat.

Dean brakes abruptly at a four-way stop. Someone calls him an asshole and swerves around him.

“Why would you say that?” Dean demands, hooking an arm over the bench seat to look at Sam. There’s no way Sam could know about him and Cas. Oh god, what if they slipped? What if Sam caught them kissing?

Sam laughs his ‘Dean is dumb and silly’ laugh. “Because you smile like this every time you see him!” He smiles and hitches his shoulders up to his ears in an exaggerated show of bashfulness.

“I do not make such a dorky face you big liar,” Dean denies, but it just makes Sam laugh more.

“Dean likes Mister Milton, Dean likes Mister Milton!” he singsongs. Is it possible to be bullied by a four-year old?

Dean huffs and turns back to continue driving.

“You’re a bully. Cas is just a friend.” Sam’s chanting grows louder. “I do not!”  
  


\-----

  
Ellen seats them at a small booth and gives Sam a paper placemat and a set of crayons.

“I’ll be back with your food in just a few minutes, boys.”

Sam picks up the blue crayon and starts to color in the sky when Jo slides into the booth next to him. He drops the crayon and greets her with a hug.

“Jo!”

“Hey Sammy,” she leans down to kiss the top of his head. She turns to Dean with a smirk. “Hey fatty.”

Dean groans and lets his head fall against the high back of the booth. “Oh my _god_ , can’t anyone be nice to me?”

“Oohh, touchy touchy. What’s the matter, Dean? Trouble in paradise?”

Dean glares. He does not want to get into a “discussion” about Cas again, especially in front of Sam. He’d finally let up his chanting when Dean threatened to turn the car around and take them home. Feeling annoyed and ganged up on, he petulantly kicks Jo under the table.

“Ow! Geez, Winchester, what are you? _Five_?”

He shrugs and leans his elbows on the tabletop. “So you and Ash together yet?”

“He’s just a friend, I’ve told you,” she huffs, flipping a lock of hair over her shoulder.

“I didn’t know friends smooched behind the Roadhouse at closing time.” Dean purses his lips and makes obnoxious kissing noises.

“That has literally never happened,” Jo says in disgust.

Dean leans back into the booth, reveling in Jo’s discomfort. “I bet you’ve imagined it.”

Jo’s nostrils flare, a retort forming on the tip of her tongue, when Ellen returns with their food.

“A Hot Turkey for you,” she announces as she sets down a plate with a fully loaded turkey panini in front of Dean, “and a Sam Veggie Special for you, sugar,” she finishes and gives Sam a large plate of roasted vegetables over a bed of rice. She pinches Sam’s cheek and tucks his hair behind his ear. “You are just the skinniest thing,” she coos, “I just want to take you home and fatten you up.”

An idea pops into Dean’s head. “D’you want to?” he blurts.

Ellen looks over, “Beg your pardon?”

“Borrow him,” Dean clarifies, “for a night?” He looks at Sam, “Don’t you want to sleep over with your Aunt Ellen and cousin Jo?”

Sam nods distractedly, fingers-deep in his vegetables.

Ellen looks at Dean suspiciously. “You never let Sam out of your sight.”

“Well I just figured you’d want to spend more time with him,” Dean plays innocently, “but if you’re not interested...”

Jo cracks up. “Oh my god, Dean Winchester you are cellophane transparent.”

Ellen snaps her fingers in realization. “This is about that pretty boy you brought in here a few weeks ago, isn’t it?” Dean flushes a mean pink and Ellen looks down at Dean with empathy in her eyes. “We all have our needs. God knows I practically became a nun after I had Joanna.”

“Mom!”

Ellen slings a rag over her shoulder and places her arms akimbo, all business. “So,” she says, willing to settle the matter efficiently, “when do you want Sam to sleep over?”  
  


\-----

  
“One day I’m gonna be bigger than a moose. Moose are bigger than anything, they’re bigger than sheep! Dean, I pet a sheep and it was soft, not as soft as Ruby’s puppies, but soft and then my hands smelled funny.” He sniffs his hands as if to make sure the smell is gone.

“Quit squirming so I can fix your antlers,” Dean grits around a safety pin he’s holding between his teeth.

Sam sits relatively still for a few moments before bouncing on the bedsprings in excitement. “Dean where did we put my pumpkin! I want it outside next to the jack-o-lannerd.”

“We’ll put it outside before we go--”

The doorbell interrupts Dean and Sam shoots off the bed and toward the door, shrieking “Trick-or-treat!” down the stairs.

Dean quickly follows him into the hallway, where he trips over Sam’s antlers.

“Sam,” Dean reminds exasperatedly, scooping up the antlers and sprinting down the stairs two at a time, “don’t answer the door by yourself!”

Sam pulls open the front door, Dean coming up right behind him and ready to scold. Cas is waiting patiently on the front porch in his tan trenchcoat, admiring the decorations. “Hello, Sam. Dean.”

“Why aren’t you dressed up?” Sam asks, disarming Castiel with large eyes and a disappointed face.

Castiel struggles to answer so Dean volunteers for Cas. “He _is_ dressed up.”

Sam directs his attention to Dean. “He is?”

“Yep. He’s a... a tax accountant?” Dean winces but he’s gotta run with it now. “Cas, you’re dressed up as a tax accountant, right?”

“...Yes,” he nods.

“There you go, he’s a tax accountant,” he announces as he steps aside to let Cas into the house. Then, because he can’t help himself, he adds, “but it needs a little bit of work, wouldn’t you agree Sam?”

Sam beams up at Cas. “Dean’s the bestest with costumes! He can fix you up real good,” he testifies and leads Castiel up the stairs by the hand.

“I don’t really think this is necessary,” Castiel protests weakly, looking back at Dean with a plea in his eyes. Dean shrugs. If Cas can’t say no to Sam, that’s his problem.

Once in Dean’s room, Sam lets go of Cas’s hand, leaving him standing awkwardly in the center of room. Sam clambers back onto the queen-sized bed while Dean pulls out a box from the corner.

Dean laughs at Castiel’s stiff posture. “Relax, this’ll only take a minute.”

“I think this ‘costume’ is fine as is,” Castiel stresses, hoping Dean will listen. He doesn’t. Instead, he continues to rummage through the box labeled HALLOWEEN for a last minute addition to Castiel’s outfit. Sam jumps up and down on Dean’s bed in excitement.

“Candy, candy, candy!”

“I mean,” Dean continues, ignoring Sam and Cas completely, “we’ve already determined you look like a tax accountant in that trench coat--”

“It’s an overcoat,” Cas corrects.

“--so we can just spruce it up a little.”

“How?” Castiel asks, incredulously.

“Hm,” Dean pulls out a pair of yellowed vampire teeth before deciding against them and tossing them aside. He goes back to digging. “Aha! You can be a Tax Accountant...FROM HELL!” he shouts, brandishing a small plastic bottle of fake blood. “All you need is a little bit of this all over that coat--”

"Absolutely not,” Castiel immediately rejects, crossing his arms defensively and shaking his head firmly.

“It’s non-toxic,” Dean reads off the label. “Caution: may stain.”

“ _Definitely_ not.”

In the end they decide on Holy Tax Accountant because it is the only variation on 'Tax Accountant' that doesn't involve fake blood or mangling his trench coat in any way. He straps on a pair of white fluffy wings and dons a halo made of gold pipe cleaners, courtesy of Dean’s 5-year-old imagination. It is the simplest costume Castiel has ever willingly worn, but certainly not the worst costume he’s ever endured.

“You know, you could just leave it as it is,” Castiel suggests. He and Dean are standing in front of the bathroom mirror while Dean fusses with the pipe cleaner-halo. It keeps leaning to one side, giving the impression of a wilted angel finally come home from a particularly grueling day at work.

“I suppose,” Dean frowns, stepping back to look at his work. He nods approvingly, then peeks into the hall to make sure Sam’s nowhere in sight before leaning forward and kissing Cas. “Thanks for being such a good sport about all this.”

“I fear I never had a choice to begin with,” Cas admits, sliding his hands onto Dean’s hips, “Sam can be very insistent.”

“If you let him, he _will_ take advantage of you,” Dean warns and leans in for another kiss. They exchange slow kisses, Castiel’s hands wandering down Dean’s hips to cup his ass. Dean winds his arms around Cas’s neck. “And if you let me,” he whispers into Cas’s ear, gently biting the lobe, “I’ll take advantage of you, too.”

Castiel groans. “Dean, contrary to popular belief, I’m not a man of infinite patience.”

“Good thing I found Sam an overnight babysitter. By 7 o’clock he’ll be at the Harvelle’s.”

Cas stares at Dean, dumbfounded. “You’re serious.”

“Babe, tonight I’m a mountie. And a mountie,” Dean grins cheekily, “always gets his man.”  
  


\-----

  
Castiel has never trick-or-treated with such enthusiasm in his life. They head out as the sun is setting and the jack-o-lanterns slowly come to life, lighting up walkways and squeaky porches. Sam’s costume garners a lot of attention, Dean’s attracts many appreciative glances, but ultimately it’s Castiel’s costume that rakes in the extra swag.

“That’s pity candy,” Dean grumps, comparing their loot.

“It’s not a competition, Dean,” Cas says diplomatically, “but I am winning.”

“Yeah, well you got a shit-ton of Tootsie Rolls. Who’s crying now?”

“It’s still you.”

Dean encounters some of his students, most dressed in typical costumes, but a pair have crafted costumes based off monsters they’ve covered in class. He makes a mental note to give them a few extra credit points for awesomeness.

By the time they make it to the Harvelle’s front door, Dean is carrying Sam on his shoulders and Cas is carrying all their bags. Cas rings the doorbell and Ellen opens the door seconds later.

“Come on in,” she ushers them inside. Dean sets Sam onto his feet who immediately takes off in search of Jo.

“Do you boys want to stick around for coffee?”

“Thanks for the offer, Ellen, but if we stay for coffee, we’ll stay for dinner and then we’ll never leave,” Dean laughs as Castiel sets down Sam’s candy bag and duffel.

Dean takes the candy bag and takes a quick peek inside. “Sam can have _two_ pieces of candy, no more. He should be in bed by eight, eight-thirty latest. School starts at 8:15 tomorrow. His bedtime books are in his overnight bag, but make sure he brushes his teeth first. His toothbrush and toothpaste--”

“Take a deep breath, son. This ain’t my first rodeo. He’ll be fine.”

Jo comes into the foyer with Sam in tow. “Say goodnight to your brother.”

Dean kneels to face Sam. “You be good, okay? Listen to Ellen and Jo. When they say it’s bedtime, it’s bedtime. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Awesome. Goodnight, Sammy,” Dean says, kissing the top of Sam’s head.

“G’night, Dean!” He hugs Dean tight around the neck, then moves to stand in front of Cas. He looks up and waves shyly. “G’night, Mister Milton.”

“Good night, Sam.”

Ellen takes him by the hand, leading him into the dining room, “Are you hungry? I made you some green beans...”

Jo peeks around the corner until Ellen and Sam are out of sight. “Alright,” she announces, clapping her hands together with a wide wicked grin. “Open up those goodie bags.”

Dean furrows his eyebrows, confused. “What? Why?”

“Consider this your last stop. C’mon, we bought the good stuff this year,” she wheedles.

“Fine,” he agrees and opens his bag, never one to refuse food, especially when it’s free. “You too, TurboTax.”

Cas opens his bag obediently and holds it out in front of Jo. “Trick-or-treat.”

From her backpack next to the candy bowl, Jo pulls out a box of condoms and a bottle of lube, dropping each item into Dean and Cas’s bags respectively.

“Jesus _Christ_ , Jo!” Dean squawks, his ears turning a shade of beet red.

“Have fun, guys! Happy Halloween.” Jo has the gall to fucking _wink_ at them before shoving them out the door and closing it with a thud.  
  


\-----

  
Dean fumbles for his keys, noting his sweaty palms, and finally manages to open the door. He holds it open, waiting for Cas to step into the house and surreptitiously wipes his hands on his breeches. He takes off the Stetson and hangs it on the topmost knob of the coat rack.

They linger awkwardly in the living room, unsure of what to do next. Before, there had been a sense of urgency, to finish what had been started. But now, with the rest of the night before them and no distractions in sight, they’re at a standstill. The metaphoric cat has caught the mouse: now what?

Dean clears his throat. “So, uh,” he grasps, “do you want a beer?” There’s something about Cas just standing there and looking oh-so calm that makes him lose his cool, unraveling him at the ends with just a glance. Cas takes a beat too long to answer and Dean turns toward the kitchen. “I’m gonna get you a beer. You can, you know, hang your coat,” he waves at the coat rack near the front door.

He takes a little longer in the kitchen than he knows he realistically needs, taking a moment to pep talk his nerves away. _Nut up, Winchester_ , he grabs two beers and uncaps them. _There is an attractive man in your house so get your head in the game._ He closes the fridge door with his hip, makes his way back to the living room, and stops short. Castiel, upon trying to take off his coat, had forgotten the wings strapped to his back. As a result of his efforts, he has both arms trapped behind him, the elastic holding them firmly in place.

“I may require your assistance with these wings,” he wriggles.

Just like that, the tense air is broken, and Dean places the beers down with a laugh. “I’m telling you, worst angel ever. I can’t believe you got more candy than me.” He eases the pipe cleaner out of his hair and begins to tug off the strap-on wings.

“You are wearing a fine costume, Dean. I would go so far as to award you with the superlative ‘Best Ass.’” Cas announces, rotating a shoulder when his arm finally goes free.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean waves a hand dismissively, placing the wings and halo aside. “I’m about two seconds away from awarding you ‘Best Ass-Kisser,’” he snarks, turning to retrieve their beers just as Cas slides up behind him.

“I would gladly accept that title,” Cas rumbles into his ear, punctuating the statement with a kiss to the lobe.

The fine hairs on the nape of Dean’s neck stand on end. The beer bottles are noisily deposited back on the coffee table and Castiel finds himself getting bullied onto the couch. Dean clambers atop Cas who hums in agreement, placing a hand on Dean’s thigh and giving it a playful squeeze. “These pants do give you very shapely thighs.”

“They’re called breeches,” Dean replies snottily, “You should know, Equestrian Club Captain.”

“How did you know I made Captain?” Castiel inquires before deciding kissing Dean a more worthwhile endeavor.

“I--” Dean breaks off as Cas pulls him in a for a hot kiss. “Captain, really?”

Castiel makes a noise of complaint, incredulous that Dean would pick now of all times to learn about his college days. He quickly switches their positions, pushing Dean into the plush couch and climbing on top of him, settling directly on his hips. “Yes really, Dean. I’ll even show you pictures later if you will just _shut up and kiss me_. Please,” he adds as an afterthought.

It’s phrased as a request, but Dean hears the undercurrents of a command, and immediately hands are everywhere. There’s an intense rush of excitement, and for once there’s no need to turn on the TV to drown out the noise from privy 4-year old ears.

They tussle on the couch, articles of clothing slowly coming undone and disappearing. Cas sits up to help Dean out of his red tunic, the cross-strap belt halfway across the living room. Dean pushes Cas against the couch cushions, straddling his lap and pulling his shirt out of his pants. They’re both sporting boners, and they’re both desperate for friction, rutting against each other and making out like teenagers who skipped the prom altogether. Cas rolls his hips, grinding into Dean’s ass, the hard length rubbing between his cheeks and making Dean gasp. They’re still on the couch, they’re _adults_ , godammit, and they need to be upstairs _yesterday_.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Dean pants, placing his hands on Cas’s chest.

Cas pants and frowns in worry. “Too fast? Do you want to stop?” The offer to stop is genuine, but incongruent compared to the rest of him that is screaming _go_ : white dress shirt untucked and completely unbuttoned, tie loose and askew, hair mussed beyond belief, and an impressive hickey blooming on his collarbone.

Dean huffs a laugh. “Trust me, this is awesome. Let’s just move this upstairs.”  
  


\-----

  
Once in Dean’s bedroom, the urgency from earlier becomes a slow burn, each touch hot and lingering.

They kiss slowly and languidly, Castiel maneuvering Dean toward the bed while he inches his hands under Dean’s t-shirt. He peels the shirt off, pressing kisses to each bit of skin as it is revealed. Naked from the waist up, Dean settles on the bed and props himself up on his elbows, quirking an eyebrow at Cas.

Castiel climbs onto the bed, bracketing Dean’s hips with his thighs. He kisses the expanse of skin before him, from Dean’s collarbones to his navel, dipping a tongue into the small hollow. Castiel’s hands wander, mapping Dean’s body, feeling the quick expand-contract of his ribs, rubbing his thumbs over Dean’s nipples as they respond to the touch and harden.

Cas kisses his way up from Dean’s navel to his chest, pausing momentarily before licking a broad swipe over one of Dean’s nipples. Dean gasps, hips jerking up, hands grasping at Castiel’s shoulders.

Castiel smirks. “Good?”

“ _Really_ good.”

Castiel licks and kisses Dean’s nipple, biting lightly while pinching and rolling the other with his thumb and forefinger. Dean whines and pants, arching his back into Cas’s touch as he focuses his attention on the other nipple.

Cas blows on the nipple and sits up, admiring the red marks on Dean’s chest. Dean is trembling, cock tenting in his breeches and blushing from his cheeks to his chest.

Castiel’s dick twitches, painfully hard. “Take off your pants.”

Dean moans, snapping out of his pleasure-induced haze to shimmy out of the tight breeches. He pulls them off, tossing them toward the laundry basket by the closet.

He kneels on the bed, dick straining against his boxer briefs.

Castiel’s eyes darken with want. “ _Everything_ off, Dean.”

Dean skims his hands over the waistband of the briefs, pulling the elastic away and slowly easing them off his legs. He’s completely naked now, a stark contrast to Cas’s still-clothed body. He bites his lip, enjoying the powerplay.

“Lay back on the bed,” Cas orders, and Dean goes without protest, spreading his legs as Cas settles between them.

Castiel sucks marks into the sensitive skin of Dean’s thighs, biting his way up to his hips. Dean can _feel_ Cas’s breath on his dick, each kiss, bite, and suck closer and closer to his penis, but never quite making the mark. He clenches his fists in the sheets.

“C’mon, Cas, c’mon,” he pants.

Cas hovers over his cock, _so close_ , but pulls away. “Touch yourself, Dean. I want to see you do it.”

Dean unfurls a hand and brings it to his mouth, licking at his palm before wrapping it around his cock. He pumps his hand up and down the shaft, moaning as he sees Cas palm himself through his slacks. He quickens his pace, hand twisting on the upstroke. He’s close, he can feel his balls tightening, arousal curling hot and insistent in his stomach.

Castiel can see Dean begin to tip over the edge, technique faltering as he seeks his release. “Stop, Dean.”

Dean groans and squeezes the base of his cock, “Jesus fucking Christ, Cas, if you don’t get naked _right now_ , I swear to god--”

He sits up and lunges at Cas, wrestling him out of his clothes and lavishing the same attention he was afforded earlier. Dean flips them over, admiring the view for a moment before sucking a high school-sized hickey low on Cas’s neck. Cas, Dean discovers, has sensitive ears and a very sensitive neck, practically growling when Dean bites on an earlobe.

When Dean finally pulls off Cas’s underwear, Cas is fully erect, dick slightly curved and _long_. Dean smiles wickedly and swallows Cas down in one smooth, glorious move.

“Fuck,” Cas groans, “ _fuck_.”

Dean hums smugly around Castiel’s length, head bobbing up and down as Cas quickly unravels. Cas threads his fingers through Dean’s hair and Dean groans, pulling off Cas with an obscene pop and pressing a kiss to the tip of his penis.

Cas whines at the loss of Dean’s mouth on him, hands falling to his sides. Dean takes one of Cas’s hands and holds it up to his mouth, tongue darting out to lick at his fingertips before sucking two fingers into his mouth.

Castiel’s eyes darken, understanding the silent request. He turns them over, but instead of grabbing the bottle of lube, he hitches Dean’s legs over his shoulders. He suckles on the tip of Dean’s penis, then gently laps his way down the length and continues past his balls to lick at the puckered hole.

Dean jerks at the sensation, locking his ankles behind Cas’s head. “Jesus!” He bites back a moan, embarrassed at how good Cas’s tongue feels.

Cas eases his tongue in, each time pressing a little deeper. Dean’s thighs shake, eyes half-shut in pleasure, so distracted he doesn’t notice Cas fumbling for the lube. The next poke of Cas’s tongue is accompanied by the tip of his pointer finger.

“More, more, _please_ ,” Dean begs, so beyond caring at this point. He’s so turned on he could cry. “Just fuck me already.”

Cas studiously ignores him, deftly adding a second finger and pressing in, in, _there_ \--

The spark of electricity when Cas brushes against his prostate is so intense he actually yells out, feels like his breath has almost been punched out of his lungs. Suddenly everything is too hot, too intense, too much, not enough.

“Cas,” Dean sobs, gasping for breath, “I won’t ask again, _please_. Fuck me or I’m going to roll us over and fuck you for being such a tease.” If he means to sound threatening, the effect is lost in the way he presses back against Cas’s fingers, searching for pressure and friction.

It’s finally too much for Cas to wait. With his free hand, he fumbles for a condom, passing it to Dean. “Roll it on me,” he pants, continuing to fuck Dean open with his fingers.

Dean rolls the condom on, giving Cas two firm pumps before Cas pulls his fingers out. Dean falls back against the mattress, digging his ankles into Cas’s back. “Come on,” he whispers, body flushed with want.

Cas reverently places his hands on Dean’s hips, holding him still as he presses into Dean. His mouth drops open, a small “oh” escaping his lips.

“This is my favorite part,” Dean hisses with pleasure, pants turning into moans as Cas presses all the way in. Cas is big, he saw and felt that in his mouth, but now he’s so full, legs going slack and slipping off Cas’s shoulders.

Cas catches Dean’s legs and tucks them back onto his shoulders, pulling his hips back before snapping them forward.

“Ah!” Cas starts driving into him in earnest, hitting his prostate with every other thrust. “Right there, yeah, c’mon Cas.”

Before long they’re both panting and grunting, ‘so good’s and ‘make me crazy’s and ‘I could fuck you forever’s escaping their lips.

They’re getting close, Dean can feel he’s almost there, Cas’s thrusts becoming more erratic and less controlled. He wraps a hand around his dick and gets three pumps in when Cas pulls his hand away and pins his arms over his head.

“No,” Cas gasps, sweat dripping down his nose, “just like this.”

“I can’t, I can’t,” Dean pleads, frustrated and desperate, but Cas just fucks him harder, bed shifting and headboard slamming against the wall. “I-- I--Ah!”

Dean comes with an intensity he’s never felt before, whiting out as Cas fucks him through his orgasm. Cas pounds into him for a few more thrusts before finally coming himself and collapsing on top of Dean in a boneless heap.

It takes them both a few minutes to collect themselves. Cas pulls out slowly and tosses out the condom. Dean reaches around for anything to wipe them down, grabs Cas’s button-up shirt and cleans them both.

They lay there, naked and sated until their breathing evens out. Cas sighs deeply and settles into the mattress. “Amazing.”

Dean grins. “I know, right? _Memory foam_.”  
  


\-----

  
By the end of their third round, Cas’s hair sticks to his sweaty temples and Dean pushes his hair back, smiling at the unruly tufts of hair that stay upright in defiance.

Castiel closes his eyes and hums at the sensation. “That feels good.” He tilts his head into Dean’s touch.

“Finally, a cat I’m not allergic to,” Dean chuckles.

Cas snorts, remembering the fiasco, and moves closer to Dean on the bed. “Your face puffed up like a balloon, here,” he places a kiss on Dean’s nose, “and here,” a kiss on each cheek, “and here,” two gentle kisses on Dean’s eyelids.

Dean catches Cas’s lips with his own before he moves away. “Hey, it’s not funny. I got hives you know.”

Cas drags his gaze down Dean’s body, appreciating the numerous hickeys and bite marks. “You look like you have hives now.”

“And I have you to blame for that. Again.” Dean pretends to be put-out by the red bruises, and Cas just chuckles and sighs out deeply, becoming increasingly drowsy.

“My pleasure,” he slurs sleepily. And just like that, Cas is out like a light.

Dean lays on his side, facing Cas, watching him breathe slow and deep. He closes his eyes and waits for sleep to take him.

It doesn’t.

Dean rolls onto his back, shifting on the mattress to find a comfortable spot. Ah, _there_ , that’s his memory foam kicking in, and he relaxes into its comfort.

Except he still can’t fall asleep. It’s not fair. Cas is out, sleeping like a log, and he can’t get his mind to shut up enough to follow suit.

Oh God. He and Cas had sex.

Why is it suddenly such a big deal? They’d both been _aching_ for it, planning and planning for a night together that finally got to happen, but now that it has, Dean can’t help the unexpected bout of anxiety it brings.

He turns his head to glance at Cas. He’s gorgeous, distractingly so, even asleep and snoring softly, naked body firm and perfect. Dean swallows and turns his gaze to the ceiling. It’s been a while since he’d been in anyone’s bed, and even longer since he’d invited anyone into his. It’s shocking to Dean how intensely he needed Cas, how he still needs him, wants to continue needing him. The implications of that are terrifying.

Cas sniffs in his sleep, shifting and reaching a hand out to Dean, fingers curling around his shoulder. For all their chemistry and conversation, he still knows surprisingly little about him. Cas is 29, he’s Sam’s teacher, he has two siblings, he lives in an apartment with his cat, and still pretty new to town.

But he doesn’t know where Cas grew up, where he went to school and spent his summers as a child, what kind of family he has, did he have pets growing up? What was his favorite subject in school? Why did he choose to be a teacher? Why Oxford? Why grad school while living with his sister?

Dean wants to know the answers to all these questions, wants Cas to share facts about his life so Dean can tell Cas all about his. He wants Cas to know about his parents and why he takes care of Sam and how he almost couldn’t do it. He wants to be known by Cas, be discovered by him, and possibly, maybe...loved? Accepted despite his faults and his occasional stupid flares of temper and fierce protectiveness over his car, how he’d do anything, _anything_ , to make sure Sam gets everything he ever needs, maybe even let him have a dog a few years down the line when Sam understands the responsibility involved in having a pet that relies solely on its owners.

And god, how could he forget Sam in all of this? Sam adores Cas, and isn’t that just icing on the cake? It’s so easy to be with Cas because Sam approves in his own way, teasing Dean about them being boyfriends.

Are they even boyfriends? They’ve never brought it up, and Dean’s sure as hell not going to be the one to do it. Winchesters are not needy, or clingy. Besides, they’re fine the way they are, right? They’ll figure it out as they go. It’s so unlike the past few years to have perfect, beautiful, amazing Cas fall into his life like this, and have everything work out so well. What if he fucks things up? He already has once, and Cas was gracious enough to start over with him, but who’s to say he won’t fuck it up again?

The thoughts become a cycle of doubts, each feeding into the next, and before he knows it the first tendrils of sunlight are peeking in through the curtains.

He needs sleep, or as much sleep as he can get between now and heading to work, so he turns onto his side, feeling Cas’s arms wrap around his waist, Cas pressed against him, a warm, sturdy line along his back grounding him even as he drifts off into sleep.


End file.
